THE  UNIVERSITY 
€^F  ILLINOIS 
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From  the  oollection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 

823 

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THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


THE 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


REGINA 


BT 

MARIA  ROCHE 


• A mat  hlsBs  pair: 

With  equal  virtue  form’d  and  equal  grac«, 
same,  distinguish’d  by  their  sex  alon®: 

Hers  the  mild  lustre  of  the  blooming  nior», 

A id  his  the  radiance  of  the  risen  day.” 

THOM30M. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOL. 


PniLADELPIlIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  & CO. 


1808. 


McK" 


THE 


CHILDKEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTEE I 

Yellow  sheaves  from  rich  Ceres  the  cottage  had  crowu’d, 

Green  rushes  were  strew’d  on  the  floor, 

The  casements  sweet  woodbine  crept  wantonly  round, 

And  deck’d  the  sod  seats  at  the  door, 

Cunningham. 

Hail,  sweet  asylum  of  my  infancy ! Content  and  innocence  reside 
beneath  your  humble  roof,  and  Charity  unboastful  of  the  good  it 
renders.  Hail,  ye  venerable  trees!  my  happiest  hours  of  childish 
gaiety  were  jTassed  beneath  your  shelter ; then  careless  as  the  birds 
that  sung  upon  your  boughs,  I laughed  the  hours  away,  nor  knew  of 
evil. 

Here  surely  I shall  be  guarded  from  duplicity,  and,  if  not  happy 
at  least  in  some  degree  tranquil.  Here  unmolested  may  I wait,  till 
the  rude  storm -of  sorrow  is  overblown,  and  my  father’s  arms  arc 
again  expanded  to  receive  me. 

Such  were  the  words  of  Amanda,  as  the  chaise  (which  she  haf 
hired  at  a neighbouring  village  on  quitting  the  mail)  turned  down  ’ 
little  verdant  lane,  almost  darkened  by  old  trees,  whose  inter  wo  ve| 
branches  allowed  her  scarcely  a glimpse  of  her  nurse’s  cottage,  til 
she  tiad  reached  the  door. 

A number  of  tender  recollections  rushing  upon  her  mind,  rendered 
her  almost  unable  to  alight ; but  her  nurse  and  her  husband,  who  had 
been  impatiently  watching  foi  the  arrival  of  their  fondling,  assisted 
her;  and  the  former,  obeying  the  dictates  of  nature  and  atfection, 

6 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


If  stifled  her  with  caresses ; the  latter  respectfully  kissed  her  hand, 
id  dropped  a tear  of  unutterable  joy  upon  it.  Lort,  he  said,  he  was 


nad  carried  her  about  in  his  arr  s,  quite  a little  fairy.  Then  he 
egged  to  know  how  his  tear  old  captain  was,  and  Mr.  Oscar,  and 
whether  the  latter  was  not  grown  a very  fine  youth.  AmancLi, 
smiliig  thrtugli  her  tears,  endeavoured  to  answer  his  inquiries;  but 
she  was  so  much  affected  by  her  feelings,  as  to  be  hardly  able  to 
speak : and  when,  by  her  desire,  he  Vt^ent  to  discharge  the  chaise,  and 
assist  the  young  man  (who  had  travelled  with  her  from  London)  to 
bring  in  her  luggage,  her  head  sunk  upon  her  nurse’s  bosom,  whose 
arms  encircled  her  waist.  “My  dear  faithful  nurse,”  she  sobbed, 
“ your  poor  child  has  returned  again  to  seek  an  asylum  from  you.” 
“And  she  is  heartily  welcome,”  replied  the  good  creature,  crying  her- 
self; “and  I have  taken  care  to  have  everything  so  nice  and  so  tidy, 
and  so  comfortable,  that  I warrant  you  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land 
need  not  disdain  your  apartments ; and  here  are  two  little  girls,  as 
well  as  myself,  that  will  always  be  ready  to  attend,  and  serve,  and 
obey  you.  This  is  Ellen,  your  own  foster  sister ; and  this  is  Betsey, 
the  little  thing  I had  in  the  cradle  when  you  went  away ; and  I have 
besides,  though  I say  it  myself,  that  should  not  say  it,  two  as  fine 
lads  as  you  could  wish  to  see : they  are  now  at  work  at  a farmer’s 
hard  by;  but  they  will  be  here  presently.  Thank  Cot  we  are  all 
happy,  though  obliged  to  earn  our  own  bread ; but  ’tis  sweeter  for  that 
reason,  since  labor  gives  us  health  to  enjoy  it,  and  contentment  blesses 
us  all.”  Amanda  affectionately  embraced  the  two  girls,  who  were 
the  pictures  of  health  and  cheerfulness,  and  was  then  conducted  into 
a little  parlour,  which j with  a small  bed-chamber  adjoining  it,  was 
appropriated  to  her  use.  The  neatness  of  the  room  was  truly  pleas- 
ing; the  floor  was  nicely  sanded;  the  hearth  was  dressed  with 
“flowers  and  fennel  gay,”  and  the  chimney-piece  adorned  with  a 
range  of  broken  tea-cups,  “ wisely  kept  for  show ;”  a clock  ticked 
behind  the  door ; and  an  ebony  cupboard  displayed  a profusion  of 
the  showy est  ware  the  country  could  produce. 

And  now  the  nurse,  on  “ hospitable  thought  intent,”  hurried  firom 
Amanda  to  prey^are  for  dinner.  The  chicken,  as  she  said  herself,  was 
ready  to  pop  down  in  a minute ; Ellen  tied  the  asparagus,  and  Botsev 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET  t 

laid  the  cloth;  Edwin  drew  his  best  cider,  and  having  bronght  it  in 
Tiimself,  retired  to  entertain  his  gnest  in  the  kitchen  (Amanda’s 
travelling  companion,)  before  whom  he  had  already  set  some  of  his 
most  substantial  fare. 

Dinner,  in  the  opinion  of  Amanda,  was  served  in  a moment ; hut 
her  heart  was  too  full  to  eat,  though  pressed  to  do  so  with  the  utmost 
tenderness ; a tenderness  which  in  truth  was  the  means  of  overcom- 
ing her. 

When  insulted  by  malice,  or  oppressed  by  cruelty,  the  heart  can 
assume  a stern  fortitude  foreign  to  its  nature;  but  this  seeming 
apathy  vanishes  at  the  voice  of  kindness,  as  the  rigid  frost  of  winter 
melts  before  the  gentle  influence  of  the  sun ; and  tears,  gushing  tears 
of  gratitude  and  sensibility  express  its  yielding  feelings.  Sacred  are 
such  tears ; they  flow  from  the  sweet  source  of  social  aflfection ; the 
good  alone  can  shed  them. 

Her  nurse’s  sons  soon  returned  from  their  labour,  two  fine  nut- 
brown  youths.  They  had  been  the  companions  of  her  infant  sports, 
and  she  spoke  to  them  with  the  most  engaging  afiability. 

Domestic  bliss  and  rural  felicity  Amanda  had  always  been  accus- 
tomed to,  till  within  a short  period ; her  attachment  to  them  was 
still  as  strong  as  ever ; and  had  her  father  been  with  her,  she  would 
have  been  happy. 

It  was  now  about  the  middle  of  June,  and  the  whole  country  was 
glowing  with  luxuriant  beauty.  The  cottage  was,  in  reality,  a com- 
fortable, commodious  farm-house;  it  was  situated  in  Horth  Wales; 
and  the  romantic  scenery  surrounding  it  was  highly  pleasing  to  a 
disposition  like  Amanda’s,  which  delighted  equally  in  the  sublime 
amd  beautiful.  The  front  of  the  cottage  was  almost  covered  with 
woodbine,  intermingled  with  vines ; and  the  lane  already  mentioned, 
formed  a shady  avenue  up  to  the  very  door ; one  side  overlooked  a 
deep  valley,  winding  amongst  hills  clad  in  the  liveliest  vesture,  a 
clear  stream  running  through  it,  turned  a mill  in  its  course,  and 
afforded  a salutary  coolness  to  the  herds  which  ruminated  on  its 
banks;  the  other  side  commanded  a view  of  rich  pastures,  termi- 
nated by  a thick  grove,  whose  natural  vistas  gave  a view  of  culti- 
vated farms,  a small,  irregular  village,  the  spire  of  its  church,  and  a 
fine  old  castle,  whose  stately  turrets  rose  above  the  trees  surrounding 
them. 


B 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Tbs  farm-}' ard  at  the  hack  of  the  cottage  was  stocked  wiih  poultry 
aud  all  the  implements  of  rural  industry,  the  garden  was  divided 
from  it  by  a rude  paling,  interwoven  with  honeysuckles  and  wiki 
roses;  the  part  appropriated  for  vegetables  divided  from  the  part 
sacred  to  Flora  by  rows  of  fruit  trees ; a craggy  precipice  hung  over 
it,  covered  with  purple  and  yellow  flowers,  thyme,  and  other  odori- 
ferous herbs,  which  aflforded  browzage  to  three  or  four  goats  that 
skipped  about  in  playful  gambols ; a silver  stream  trickled  down  the 
precipice,  and,  winding  round  a plantation  of  shrubs,  fell  with  a 
gentle  murmur  into  the  valley.  Beneath  a projecting  fragment  of 
the  rock  a natural  recess  was  formed,  thickly  lined  with  moss,  and 
planted  round  with  a succession  of  beautiful  flowers. 

Here  scatter’d  wild  the  lily  of  the  vale 

Its  balmy  essence  breathes ; here  cowslips  hang 

The  dewy  head,  and  purple  violets  lurk, 

With  all  the  lowly  children  of  the  shade. 

Thomson. 

Of  those  scenes  Amanda  had  but  an  imperfect  recollection ; such  a 
faint  idea  as  we  retain  of  a confused  but  agreeable  dream,  which, 
though  we  cannot  explain,  leaves  a pleasing  impression  behind. 

Peculiar  circumstances  had  driven  her  from  the  shelter  of  a 
parent's  arms,  to  seek  security  in  retirement  at  this  abode  of  simpli- 
city and  peace.  Here  the  perturbation  of  fear  subsided;  but  the  soft 
melancholy  of  her  soul  at  times  was  heightened,  when  she  reflected, 
that  in  this  very  place  an  unfortunate  mother  had  expired,  almost  at 
the  moment  of  giving  her  birth. 

Amanda  was  now  about  nineteen.  A description  of  her  face  and 
person  would  not  do  her  justice,  as  it  never  could  convey  a full  idea 
of  the  ineffable  sweetness  and  sensibility  of  the  former,  or  the  strik- 
ing elegance  and  beautiful  proportion  of  the  latter. 

SoiTow  had  faded  her  vivid  bloom : for  the  distresses  of  her  father 
weighed  heavy  on  her  heart,  and  the  blossom  drooped  with  the  tree 
that  supported  it.  Her  agonized  parent  witnessing  this  sudden 
zliange  sent  her  into  Wales,  as  much  for  health  as  for  security ; she 
was  ordered  goat’s  whey  and  gentle  exercise ; but  she  firmly  believed, 
that  consolation  on  her  father’s  account  could  alone  effect  a cure. 

Though  the  rose  upon  her  cheek  was  pale,  and  the  lustre  of  lier 
liyes  was  fled,  she  wiis  from  those  circumstances  (if  fess  dazzhng 


eHILDREN  OF  THE  A C C E T . tr 

tha  eye)  more  affecting  to  tlie  heart.  Cold  and  nnfeeli£.g  ina^ised 
nust  that  one  have  been,  which  could  see  her  unmoved:  for  hers  "Vvas 
that  interesting  face  and  figure,  which  had  power  to  fix  the  wandering 
eye,  and  change  the  gaze  of  admiration  into  the  throb  of  sensibility ; 
nor  was  her  mind  inferior  to  the  form  that  enshrined  it. 

She  now  exerted  her  spirits  in  gratitude  to  her  humble  but  benevo- 
lent friends.  Her  arrival  had  occasioned  a little  festival  at  the  cot- 
tage : the  tea-things,  which  were  kept  more  for  show  than  use  in  the 
ebony  cupboard,  were  now  taken  out,  and  carried  by  her  desire  to  the 
recess  in  the  garden ; whither  Mrs.  Edwin  followed  the  family  with  a 
hot  cake,  Amanda  thought  large  enough  to  serve  half  the  principality. 

The  scene  was  delightful  and  well  calculated  to  banish  all  sadness 
but  despair ; Amanda  was  therefore  cheered ; for  she  was  too  much 
the  child  of  piety  ever  to  have  felt  its  baleful  influence.  In  the 
midst  of  her  troubles  she  still  looked  up  with  humble  confidence  to 
that  Power,  who  has  promised  never  to  forsake  the  righteous. 

The  harmless  jest,  the  jocund  laugh  went  round,  and  Amanda 
enjoyed  the  innocent  gaiety;  for  a benevolent  mind  will  ever  derive 
pleasure  from  the  happiness  of  others.  The  declining  sun  now  gave 
softer  beauties  to  the  extensive  scenery ; the  lowing  of  the  cattle  was 
faintly  echoed  by  the  neighbouring  hills ; the  cheerful  carol  of  the 
peasant  floated  on  the  evening  gale,  that  stole  perfumes  from  beds  of 
flowers,  and  wafted  them  around ; the  busy  bees  had  now  completed 
the  delicious  labor  of  the  day,  and  with  incessant  humming  sought 
their  various  hives,  while 

Every  copse 

Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Were  prodigal  of  harmony. 

Thomson. 

To  complete  the  concert,  a blind  harper,  who  supported  himself 
by  summer  rambles  through  the  country,  strolled  into  the  garden : 
and  after  a plentiful  repast  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  nut-brown  ale, 
began  playing. 

The  venerable  appearance  of  the  musician,  the  simple  melody  >f 
his  harp,  recalled  to  Amanda’s  recollection  the  tales  of  other  times?, 
in  which  she  had  so  often  delighted ; it  sent  her  soul  back  to  the  ag-^a 
of  old,  to  the  days  of  other  years,  when  bards  rehearsed  the  explcr-3 
of  heroes,  and  sung  the  praises  of  the  dead,  “while  the  gho^^  sf 


10 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


liose  they  sung  came  in  their  rustling  winds,  and  were  seen  to  bend 
s'ith  joy  towards  the  sound  of  their  praise.”  To  proceed  in  the 
beautiful  language  of  Ossian:  “the  sound  was  mournful  and  low,  like 
the  song  of  the  tomb;  such  as  Fingal  heard  when  the  crowded  sighs 
of  his  bosom  rose;”  and,  “some  of  my  heroes  are  low,”  said  the 
grey-haired  king  of  Morven : “I  hear  the  sound  of  death  on  the 
harp.  Ossian,  touch  the  trembling  string.  Bid  the  sorrow  rise,  that 
their  spints  may  fly  with  joy  to  Morven’s  woody  hills.”  lie  touched 
the  harp  before  the  king:  the  sound  was  mournful  and  low.  “ Bend 
forwards  from  your  clouds,”  he  said;  “ghosts  of  my  fathers,  bend. 
Lay  by  the  red  terror  of  your  course.  Eeceive  the  falling  chief; 
whether  he  comes  from  a distant  land,  or  rises  from  the  rolling  sea 
*et  his  robe  of  mist  be  near,  his  spear  that  is  formed  of  a cloud ; 
place  a half-extinguished  meteor  by  his  side,  in  the  form  of  the  hero’s 
sword.  And,  oh ! let  his  countenance  be  lovely,  that  his  friends  may 
delight  in  his  presence.  Bend  from  your  clouds,”  he  said,  “ghosts 
of  my  fathers,  bend.” 

The  sweet  enthusiasm  which  arose  in  Amanda’s  mind  from  her 
present  situation  her  careful  nurse  soon  put  an  end  to,  by  reminding 
her  of  the  heavy  dew  then  falling.  Amanda  could  have  staid  for 
hours  in  the  garden;  but,  resigning  her  inclination  to  her  nurse’s, 
she  immediately  accompanied  her  into  the  house.  She  soon  felt 
inclined  to  retire  to  rest ; and  after  a slight  supper  of  strawberries 
and  cream  (which  was  all  they  could  prevail  on  her  to  touch)  she 
withdrew  to  her  chamber,  attended  by  the  nurse  and  her  two 
daughters,  who  all  thought  their  services  requisite : and  it  was  not 
without  much  difficulty  Amanda  persuaded  them  to  the  contrary. 

Left  to  solitude,  a tender  awe  stole  upon  the  mind  of  Amanda, 
when  she  reflected,  that  in  this  very  room  her  mother  had  expired. 
The  recollection  of  her  sufferings,  the  sorrows  her  father  and  self  had 
experienced  since  the  period  of  her  death,  the  distresses  they  still 
felt  and  might  yet  go  through,  all  raised  a sudden  agony  in  her  soul, 
and  tears  burst  forth;  she  went  to  the  bed,  and  knelt  beside  it. — 
“Oh!  my  mother,”  she  cried,  “if  thy  departed  spirit  is  permitted  to 
look  down  upon  this  world,  hear  and  regard  the  supplications  of  thy 
child,  for  thy  protection  amidst  the  snares  which  may  be  spread  for 
her.  Yet,”  continued  she,  after  a pause,  “that  Being,  who  has  taken 
thee  to  himself,  wilL  if  I continue  innocent,  extend  his  gaardiaii 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


11 


4ftre;  to  Him  therefore,  to  Ilim  be  raised  the  fervent  prayer  for 
rendering  abortive  every  scheme  of  treachery.” 

She  prayed  with  all  the  fervency  of  devotion;  her  wandering 
thoughts  were  all  restrained,  and  her  passions  gradually  subsided  into 
a 

"Warmed  by  a pure  and  ardent  piety,  that  sacred  power  which 
3omes  with  healing  on  its  wings  to  the  afflicted  children  of  humanity, 
<he  felt  a placid  hope  spring  in  her  heart,  that  whispered  to  it,  all 
would  yet  be  well. 

She  rose  tranquil  and  animated.  The  inhabitants  of  the  cottage 
fciid  retired  to  repose ; and  she  heard  no  sound  save  the  ticking  of 
the  old  clock  from  the  outside  room.  She  went  to  the  window,  ano 
raising  the  white  calico  curtain,  looked  down  the  valley;  it  was 
illuminated  by  the  beams  of  the,  moon,  which  tipt  the  trees  with  a 
shadowy  silver,  and  threw  a line  of  radiance  on  the  clear  rivulet. 
All  was  still  as  if  creation  slept  upon  the  bosom  of  serenity.  Here, 
while  contemplating  the  scene,  a sudden  flutter  at  the  window 
startled  her ; and  she  saw  in  a moment  after  a bird  flit  across,  and 
perch  on  a tree  whose  boughs  shaded  the  casement : a soft  serenade 
was  immediately  begun  by  the  sweet  and  plaintive  bird  of  night. 

Amanda  at  length  dropped  the  curtain  and  sought  repose ; it  soon 
blest  her  eyelids,  and  shed  a sweet  oblivion  over  all  her  cares. 

Sleep  on,  sweet  innoeent — 

And  whed  a soul  is  found  sincerely  so 
A thousand  liv’ry’d  angels  lacquey  it, 

Driving  far  off  all  thought  of  harm  or  sin. 

Miltoj*. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Canst  thou  hear  cold  and  hunger  ? . Can  these  limbs, 

Fram’d  for  tender  offices  of  love. 

Endure  the  bitter  gripes  of  smarting  poverty? 

When  in  a bed  of  straw  we  shrink  together. 

And  the  bleak  winds  shall  whistle  round  our  heads, 

Wilt  thou  talk  to  me  thus. 

Thus  hush  my  cares,  and  shelter  me  with  love  ? 

Otway. 

Fitzaian,  the  father  of  Amanda,  was  the  descendant  of  an  ancient 
Irish  family,  which  had  however,  unfortunately,  attained  the  suirinifc 


12 


CHILDREK  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  its  j^rosperitj  long  before  liis  entrance  into  life;  so  that  little  mora 
than  the  name,  once  dignified  by  illustrious  actions,  was  left  to  its 
posterity.  The  parents  of  Fitzalan  were  supported  by  an  employ- 
ment under  government,  which  enabled  them  to  save  a small  sum  for 
their  son,  an  only  child,  who,  at  an  early  period,  became  its  sole 
Blaster,  by  their  dying  within  a short  period  of  each  other.  As  soon 
as  he  had  in  some  degree  recovered  the  shock  of  such  calamities,  he 
laid  out  his  little  pittance  in  the  purchase  of  a commission,  as  a pro- 
fession best  suiting  his  inclinations  and  finances. 

The  war  between  America  and  France  had  then  just  commenced; 
and  Fitzalan’s  regiment  was  amongst  the  first  forces  sent  to  the  aid  of 
the  former.  The  scenes  of  war,  though  dreadfully  affecting  to  a soul 
of  exquisite  sensibility,  such  as  he  possessed,  had  not  power  to  damp 
the  ardour  of  his  spirit ; for  with  the  name  he  inherited  the  hardy 
resolution  of  his  progenitors. 

He  had  once  tlie  good  fortune  to  save  the  life  of  a British  soldier : 
he  was  one  of  a small  party,  who,  by  the  treachery  of  their  guides, 
were  suddenly  surprised  in  a wood,  through  which  they  were  obliged 
to  pass,  to  join  another  detachment  of  the  army.  Their  only  way  in 
this  alarming  exigence,  was  to  retreat  to  the  fort  from  whence  they 
had  but  lately  issued : encompassed  as  they  were  by  the  enemy,  this 
was  not  achieved  without  the  greatest  difiiculty.  Just  as  they  had 
reached  it,  Fitzalan  saw  far  behind  them  a poor  soldier,  who  had  been 
wounded  at  the  first  onset,  just  overtaken  by  two  Indians.  Yielding 
to  the  impulse  of  compassion  in  which  aU  idea  of  self  was  lost,  Fit- 
zalan hastily  turned  to  his  assistance,  and  flinging  himself  between 
the  pursued  and  pursuers,  he  kept  them  at  bay  till  the  poor  creature 
had  reached  a place  of  safety.  This  action,  performed  at  the  immi- 
nent hazard  of  his  life,  secured  him  the  lasting  gratitude  of  the 
soldier,  whose  name  was  Edwin;  the  same  that  now  offered  an 
asylum  to  his  daughter. 

Edwin  had  committed  some  juvenile  indiscretions,  which  highly 
incensed  his  parents:  in  despair  at  incurring  their  resentment,  he 
enlisted  with  a recruiting  party  in  their  neighbourhood;  but  accus- 
tomed all  his  life  to  peace  and  plenty,  he  did  not  by  any  means  relish 
his  new  situation.  His  gratitude  to  Fitzalan  was  unbounded ; he  con* 
eidered  him  as  the  preserver  of  his  life ; and  on  the  man’s  being  dis- 
missed, who  had  hitherto  attended  him  as  a servant,  entreated  he 
might  be  taken  in  his  place.  This  entreaty  Fitzalan  complied  wit> 


eHlLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


13 


ho  was  pleased  with  Edwin’s  manner;  and  having  heard  the  xittle 
history  of  his  misfortanes,  promised  on  their  return  to  Europe,  to 
intercede  with  his  friends  for  him. 

During  his  stay  abroad,  Fitzalan  was  promoted  to  a captain-lieu- 
tenancy: his  pay  was  his  only  support,  which  of  necessity  checked 
his  benevolence  of  spirit,  ‘‘  open  as  day  to  melting  charity.” 

On  the  regiment’s  return  to  Europe,  he  obtained  Edwin’s  discharge, 
who  longed  to  re-enter  upon  his  former  mode  of  life.  He  accompa- 
nied the  penitent  himself  into  ’W'ales,  where  he  was  received  with 
the  truest  rapture. 

In  grief  for  his  loss,  his  parents  had.forgotten  aU  resentment  for  iiis 
errors,  which  indeed  had  never  been  very  great ; they  had  lost  their 
two  remaining  children  during  his  absence,  and  now  received  him  as 
the  sole  comfort  and  hope  of  their  age. 

Ilis  youthful  protector. was  blest  with  the  warmest  gratitude : tears 
filled  his  fine  eyes,  as  he  beheld  the  pleasure  of  the  parents,  and  con- 
trition of  the  son;  and  he  departed  with  that  heartfelt  .pleasure, 
which  ever  attends  and  rewards  an  action  of  humanity. 

He  now  accompanied  his  regiment  into  Scotland;  they  were 
quartered  at  a fort  in  a remote  part  of  that  kingdom. 

Hear  the  fort  was  a fine  old  Abbey  belonging  to  the  family  oi  Dun- 
reath ; the  high  hills  which  nearly  encompassed  it,  were  almost  all 
covered  Avith  trees,  Avhose  dark  shades  gave  the  appearance  of  gloomy 
solitude  to  the  building. 

The  present  possessor,  the  earl  of  Dunreath,  Avas  noAV  far  advanced 
in  life ; twice  had  he  married,  in  expectation  of  a male  heir  to  his 
large  estates,  and  tAvice  had  he  been  disappointed.  His  first  lady  had 
expired  immediately  after  the  birth  of  a daughter.  She  had  taken 
tinder  her  protection  a young  female,  who,  by  unexpected  vicissitudes 
of  her  family,  was  left  destitute  of  support.  On  the  demise  of  her 
patroness,  she  retired  from  the  Abbey  to  the  house  of  a kinsAvoinan 
in  this  vicinity ; the  earl  of  Dunreath,  accustomed  to  her  society,  felt 
his  solitude  doubly  augmented  by  her  absence.  He  had  ever  followed 
the  dictates  of  inclination,  And  would  not  disobey  them  noAV  : ere  tlio 
term  of  mourning  was  expired,  he  offered  his  hand  and  Avas  acceiffed. 

The  fair  orphan,  noAv  triumphant  mistress  of  the  Abbey,  found  there 
was  no  ''onger  occasion  to  check  her  natural  propensities.  Her  soul 
was  vain,  unfeeling,  and  ambitious ; and  the  sudder  elevation  broke 


14 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


do  wn  all  barriers  wliicli  prudence  had  hitherto  opposed  to  her  pas» 
Bions.  She  soon  gained  an  absolute  ascendency  over  her  lord — she 
knew  how  to  assume  the  smile  of  complacency,  and  the  accent  of 
sensibility. 

Forgetful  of  the  kindness  of  her  late  patroness,  she  treated  the 
infant  she  had  left  with  the  cruelest  neglect ; a neglect,  which  was, 
if  possible,  increased  on  the  birth  of  her  own  daughter,  as  she  could 
not  bear  that  Augusta,  (instead  of  possessing  the  whole)  should  only 
share  the  affections  of  her  father.  Slie  cantrived  by  degrees  to  alien- 
ate the  former  from  the  innocent  Malvina ; and  she  trusted  she  should 
yet  find  means  to  deprive  her  of  the  latter. 

Terrified  by  violence  and  depressed  by  severity,  the  child  looked 
dejected  and  unhappy ; and  this  appearance,  lady  Dunreath  made  the 
earl  believe,  proceeded  from  sulkiness  and  natural  ill  humor.  Her 
own  child,  unrestrained  in  any  wish  of  her  heart,  was,  from  her  play- 
ful gaiety,  a constant  source  of  amusement  to  the  earl ; her  mother 
had  taken  care  to  instruct  her  in  all  the  little  endearments,  which, 
when  united  with  infantine  sweetness,  allure  almost  imperceptibly 
the  affections. 

Malvina,  ere  she  knew  the  meaning  of  sorrow,  thus  became  its 
prey ; but  in  spite  of  envy  and  ill  treatment,  she  grew  up  with  all 
the  graces  of  mind  and  form,  that  had  distinguished  her  mother ; her 
air  was  at  once  elegant  and  commanding;  her  face  replete  with 
sweetness : and  her  fine  eyes  had  a mixture  of  sensibility  and  languor 
in  them,  which  spoke  to  the  feeling  soul. 

Augusta  was  also  a fine  figure;  but  unpossessed  of  the  winning 
graces  of  elegance  and  modesty,  which  adorned  her  sister ; her  form 
always  appeared  decorated  with  the  most  studied  art,  and  her  large 
eyes  had  a confident  assurance  in  them,  that  seemed  to  expect  and 
demand  universal  homage. 

The  warriors  of  the  fort  were  welcome  visitants  at  the  Abbey, 
Vv^hich  lady  Dunreath  contrived  to  render  a scene  of  almost  constant 
gaiety,  by  keeping  up  a continual  intercourse  with  all  the  adjacent 
families,  and  entertaining  all  the  strangers  who  came  into  its  neigh 
boui’l^AOod. 

Lt/fd  Duureath  had  long  been  a prey  to  infirmities,  which  at  this 
period  generally  confined  him  to  his  room:  but  though  his  body  waa 
debilitated,  his  mind  retained  all  its  active  powers. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEr 


15 


Tlie  first  appearance  of  the  officers  at  the  Abbey,  was  at  a ball  given 
by  lady  Dunreatb,  in  consequence  of  their  arrival  near  it:  the  gotbie 
apartments  were  decorated,  and  lighted  up  with  a splendour  that  at 
once  displayed  taste  and  magnificence : the  lights,  the  music,  the 
brilliancy  and  unusual  gaiety  of  the  company,  all  gave  to  the  spirits 
of  Malvina  an  agreeable  flutter  they  had  never  before  experienced; 
and  a brighter  bloom  than  usual  stole  over  her  lovely  cheek. 

The  young  co-heiresses  were  extremely  admired  by  the  military 
heroes.  Malvina  as  the  eldest  opened  the  ball  with  the  colonel : her 
form  had  attracted  the.  eyes  of  Fitzalan,  and  vainly  he  attempted  to 
withdraw  them,  till  the  lively  conversation  of  Augusta,  who  honoured 
him  with  her  hand,  forced  him  to  restrain  his  glances,  and  pay  her 
the  sprightly  attention  so  generally  expected— when  ho  came  to  turn 
to  Malvina,  he  involuntarily  detained  her  hand  for  a moment ; sho 
blushed,  and  the  timid  beam  that  stole  from  her  half-averted  eyes 
agitated  his  whole  soul. 

Partners  were  changed  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and  he  seized 
the  first  opportunity  that  offered  for  engaging  her ; the  softness  of 
her  voice,  the  simplicity  yet  elegance  of  her  language,  now  captivated 
his  heart,  as  much  as  her  form  had  charmed  his  eyes. 

Ij^ever  had  he  before  seen  an  object  he  thought  halt  so  lovely  or 
engaging ; with  her  he  could  not  support  that  lively  strain  of  conver- 
sation he  had  done  with  her  sister.  Where  the  heart  is  much  inter- 
ested, it  wiU  not  admit  of  trifling. 

Fitzalan  was  now  in  the  meridian  of  manhood ; his  stature  was 
above  the  common  size,  and  elegance  and  dignity  were  conspicuous  in 
it ; his  features  were  regularly  handsome,  and  the  fairness  of  his  fore- 
head proved  what  his  complexion  had  been,  till  change  of  climate 
and  hardship  had  embrowned  it ; the  expression  of  his  countenance 
was  somewhat  plaintive;  his  eyes  had  a sweetness  in  them,  that 
spoke  a soul  of  the  tenderest  feelings;  and  the  smile  that  played 
around  his  mouth  would  have  adorned  the  face  of  female  beauty. 

When  the  dance  with  Lady  Malvina  was  over.  Lady  Augusta  took 
care  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  to  engross  all  his  attention. 
She  thought  him  by  far  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room,  and  gave 
him  no  opportunity  of  avoiding  her ; gallantry  obliged  him  to  return 
her  assiduities,  and  he  was  by  his  brother  ofiicers  set  down  in  tlie  list 
of  her  ad.crer6  This  mistake  he  encouraged;  ho  cDuld  bear  raiUerj 


16 


tniLBREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


on  an  indifforenfc  subject;  and  joined  in  the  mirth,  which  the  idea  of 
his  laying  siege  to  the  yonng  heiress  occasioned. 

He  deluded  himself  with  no  false  hopes  relative  to  the  real  object 
of  his  passion ; he  knew  the  obstacles  between  them  vrere  insuperable ; 
but  his  heart  was  too  proud  to  complain  of  fate;  he  shook  off  all 
appearance  of  melancholy,  and  seemed  more  animated  than  ever. 

His  visits  at  the  Abbey  became  constant ; Lady  Augusta  took  them 
to  herself,  and  encouraged  his  attentions  ; as  her  mother  rendered  her 
perfect  mistress  of  her  own  actions,  she  had  generally  a levee  of  red 
coats  every  morning  in  her  dressing-room.  Lady  Malvina*  seldom 
appeared ; she  was  at  those  times  almost  always  employed  in  reading 
to  her  father ; when  that  was  not  the  case,  her  own  favourite  avoca- 
tions often  detained  her  in  her  room ; or  else  she  wandered  out,  about 
the  romantic  rocks  on  the  sea  shore  ; she  delighte  in  solitary  rambles, 
and  loved  to  visit  the  old  peasants,  who  told  her  tales  of  her  departed 
mother's  goodness;  drawing  tears  of  sorrow  from  her  eyes,  at  the 
irreparable  loss  she  had  sustained  by  her  death. 

Fitzalan  went  one  morning  as  usual  to  the  Abbey  to  pay  his  constant 
visit ; as  he  went  through  the  gallery  which  led  to  Lady  Augusta’s 
dressing-room,  his  eyes  were  caught  by  two  beautiful  portraits  of  the 
earl’s  daughters ; an  artist,  by  his  express  desire,  had  come  to  the 
Abbey  to  draw  them ; they  were  just  finished,  and  that  morning 
placed  in  the  gallery. 

Lady  Augusta  appeared  negligently  reclining  upon  a sofa,  in  a ver- 
dant alcove ; the  fiowing  drapery  of  the  loose  robe  in  which  she  was 
habited,  set  off  her  fine  figure;  little  cupids  were  seen  fanning  aside 
her  dark  brown  hair,  and  strewing  roses  on  her  pillow. 

Lady  Malvina  was  represented  in  the  simple  attire  of  a peasant  girl, 
leaning  on  a little  grassy  hillock,  whose  foot  was  washed  by  a clear 
stream : while  her  fiock  browsed  around,  and  her  dog  rested  beneath 
the  shade  of  an  old  tree,  that  waved  its  branches  over  her  head,  and 
seemed  to  shelter  her  from  the  beams  of  the  meridian  sun; 

‘^Beautiful  portrait,”  cried  Fitzalan,  ‘‘sweet  resemblance  of  a sei- 
aphic  form.” 

He  heard  a soft  sigh  behind  him ; he  started,  turned,  and  perceived 
Lady  Malvina ; in  the  utmost  confusion  he  faltered  out  liis  admiration 
of  the  pictures,  and  not  knowing  w^hat  he  did,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Lady 
Augusta’s,  exclaiming,  “How  beautiful!” — “ ’Tis  very  handsome 


.CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  l7 

indeed,”  said  Malvina,  with  a more  pensive  voice  than  usual,  and  led 
the  way  to  her  sister’s  dressing-room. 

Lady  Augusta  was  spangling  some  ribbon ; but  at  Fitzalan’s  entrance 
she  threw  it  aside,  and  asking  if  he  had  been  admiring  her  picture. 
Yes,  he  said,  ’twas.that  alone  had  prevented  his  before  paying  his 
homage  to  the  original.  lie  proceeded  in  a strain  of  compliments, 
wliich  ]:ad  more  gallantry  than  sincerity  in  them.  In  the  course 
of  their  trifling,  he  snatched  a knot  of  the  spangled  ribbon,  and 
pinning  it  next  his  heart,  declared  it  should  remain  there  as  a talisman 
against  all  future  impressions. 

He  stole  a glance  at  Lady  Malvina, — she  held  a book  in  her  hand; 
but  her  eyes  were  turned  towards  him,  and  a deadly  paleness  over- 
spread her  countenance. 

Fitzalan’s  spirit  vanished ; he  started  and  declared  he  must  be  gone 
immediately.  The  dejection  of  Lady  Malvina  dwelt  upon  his  heart; 
it  flattered  its  fondness,  but  pained  its  sensibility.  He  left  the  fort  in 
the  evening  immediately  after  he  had  retired  from  tlie  mess ; ho 
strolled  to  the  sea-side,  and  rambled  a considerable  way  among  the 
rocks.  The  scene  was  wild  and  solemn ; the  shadows  of  evening  were 
beginning  to  descend ; the  waves  stole  with  low  murmurs  upon  the 
shore,  the  soft  breeze  gently  agitated  the  marine  plants  that  grew 
amongst  the  crevices  of  the  rocks ; already  vrere  the  sea  fowl,  with 
harsh  and  melancholy  cries,  flocking  to  their  nests,  some  lightly  skim- 
ming over  the  surface  of  the  water,  while  others  were  seen,  like  dark 
clouds,  rising  from  the  long  heath  of  the  neighboring  hills.  Fitzalan 
pursued  his  way  in  deep  and  melancholy  meditation,  from  which  a 
plaintive  Scotch  air,  sung  by  the  melting  voice  of  harmony  itself, 
roused  him.  He  looked  towards  the  spot  from  Avhence  the  sound 
proceeded,  and  beheld  Lady  Malvina  standing  on  a low  rock,  a 
projection  of  which  afforded  her  support.  Hothing  could  be  more 
picturesque  than  her  appearance:  she  looked  like  one'  of  the  beautiful 
forms,  which  Ossian  so  often  describes ; her  white  dress  fluttered 
with  the  wind,  and  her  daik  hair  hung  dishevelled  around  her. 
Fitzalan  moved  softly  and  stopped  behind  her;  she  wept  as  she  sung, 
and  wiped  away  her  tears  as  she  ceased  singing:  and  she  sighed 
lieavily.  ‘‘Ah,  my  mother,”  she  exclaimed,  “why  was  Malvina 
behind  you?^ 

“Tr  bless  and  improve  mankind,”  cried  Fitzalan.  She  screamed^ 


18 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


aiKl  wonld  have  fallen,  had  he  not  caught  her  in  his  arms : he  prevailed 
on  her  to  sit  down  upon  the  rock,  and  allow  him  to  support  her,  till 
the  agitation  had  subsided.  “And  why,”  cried  he,  “should  lady 
'Malvina  give  way  to  melancholy,  blessed  as  she  is  with  all  that  can 
render  life  desirable?  "Why  seek  its  indulgence  by  rambling  about 
these  dreary  rocks,”  fit  haunts  alone,  he  might  have  added,  for  wretch- 
edness and  me?  “ Can  I help  wondering  at  your  dejection,”  (contin- 
ued he)  “ when  to  all  appearance,  (at  least)  I see  you  possessed  of  every 
thing  requisite  to  constitute  felicity  ?” 

“ Ai'pearances  are  often  deceitful,”  said  Malvina,  (forgetting  in  that 
moment  the  caution  she  had  hitherto  inviolably  observed,  of  never 
hinting  at  the  ill  treatment  she  had  received  from  the  countess  of 
Dunreath  and  her  daughter.)  “Appearances  are  often  deceitful,”  she 
said,  “ as  I,  alas  ? too  fatally  experience.  The  glare,  the  ostentation 
of  w^ealth,  a soul  of  sensibility  would  willingly  resign  for  privacy  and 
plainness,  if  they  were  to  he  attended  with  real  friendship  and 
sympathy.” 

“And  how  few,”  cried  Fitzalan,  turning  his  expressive  eyes  upon 
her  face,  “ can  know  Lady  Malvina  without  feeling  friendship  for  her 
virtues,  and  sympathy  for  her  sorrows.”  As  he  spoke,  he  pressed  her 
hand  against  his  heart,  and  she  felt  the  knot  of  ribbon,  he  had 
snatched  from  her  sister:  she  instantly  withdrew  her  hand,  and 
darting  a haughty  glance  at  him,  “Captain  Fitzalan,”  said  she, 
“ you  were  going,  I believe,  to  Lady  Augusta ; let  me  not  detain 
you.” 

Fitzalan’s  passions  were  no  longer  under  the  dominion  of  reason ; 
he  tore  the  ribbon  from  his  breast,  and  fiung  it  into  the  sea.  “ Going 
to  Lady  Augusta  ?”  he  exclaimed,  “ and  is  her  lovely  sister  then  really 
deceived  ? Ah ! Lady  Malvina,  L now  gaze  on  the  dear  attraction 
that  drew  me  to  the  Abbey.  The  feelings  of  a real,  a hopeless  passion 
could  ill  support  raillery  or  observation : I hid  my  passion  within  the 
recess  of  my  heart  and  gladly  allowed  my  visits  to  be  placed  to  the 
account  of  an  object  truly  indifferent,  that  I might  have  opportunities 
of  seeing  an  object  I adored.”  Malvina  blushed  and  trembled 
“Fitzalan,”  cried  she,  after  a pause,  “I  detest  deceit.” 

“ I abhor  it  too.  Lady  Malvina,”  said  he ; “ but  wdiy  should  I now 
endeavour  to  prove  my  sincerity,  when  I know  it  is  so  very  immaterial? 
Excuse  me  for  what  I have  already  uttered,  ard  believe  that  though 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDEY. 


19 


susceptible,  I am  not  aspiring.”  He  then  presented  Lis  hand  to 
• Malvina ; slie  descended  from  her  seat,  and  they  walked  towards  tlio 
Abbey.  Lady  Malvina’s  pace  was  slow ; and  her  blushes,  had  Fitzalan 
looked  at  her,  would  have  expressed  more  pleasure  than  resentment ; 
she  seemed  to  expect  a still  further  declaration ; but  Fitzalan  was  too 
confused  to  speak ; nor  indeed  was  it  his  intention  again  to  indulge 
himself  on  the  dangerous  subject.  They  proceeded  in  silence;  al  the 
Abbey  gate  they  stopped  and  he  wished  her  good  night.  “ Shall  we 
not  soon  see  you  at  the  Abbey  ?”  exclaimed  Lady  Malvina  in  a flurried 
voice,  which  seemed  to  say  she  thought  her  adieu  rather  an  hasty 
one.  “Ho,  my  lovely  friend,”  cried  Fitzalan,  pausing,  while  he 
looked  on  her  with  the  most  compassionate  tenderness.  “ In  future  I 
shall  chiefly  conflne  myself  to  the  fort.”  “ Do  you  dread  an  inva- 
sion?” asked  she,  smiling,  while  a stolen  glance  of  her  eye  gave  a 
peculiar  meaning  to  her  words.  “I  long  dreaded  that,”  cried  he,  in 
the  same  strain,  “ and  my  fears  were  well  founded ; but  I must  now 
muster  all  my  powers  to  dislodge  the  enemy.”  He  kissed  her  hand  and 
tlien  precipitately  retired. 

Lady  Malvina  repaired  to  her  chamber  in  such  tumult  of  pleasure 
as  she  had  never  before  experienced.  She  admired  Fitzalan  from  the 
first  evening  she  beheld  him ; though  his  attentions  were  directed  to 
her  sister,  the  language  of  his  eyes  to  her  contradicted  any  attach- 
ment these  attentions  might  have  intimated;  his  gentleness  and 
sensibility  seemed  congenial  to  her  own.  Hitherto  she  had  been  the 
slave  of  tyranny  and  caprice ; and  now,  for  the  first  time,  experienced 
that  soothing  tenderness,  her  wounded  feelings  had  so  long  siglu^d 
for.  She  was  agitated  and  delighted;  she  overlooked  every  obstacle 
to  her  wishes,  and  waited  impatiently  a farther  explanation  of  Fitz- 
alan’s  sentiments. 

Far  diflerent  were  his  feelings  from  hers ; to  know  he  was  beloved, 
could  scarcely  yield  him  pleasure,  when  he  reflected  on  his  hopeless 
situation,  which  forbade  his  availing  himself  of  any  advantage  that 
knowledge  might  have  afforded.  Of  a union  indeed,  he  did  not  dare 
to  think,  since  its  consequences  he  knew  must  be  destruction ; for, 
rigid  and  austere  as  the  earl  was  represented,  he  could  not  flatter 
aimself  he  would  ever  pardon  such  a step ; and  the  means  of  support- 
ing Lidy  Malvina,  in  any  degree  of  comfort,  he  did  not  possess  him 
Beif.  Ho  determined,  as  much  as  possible,  to  avoid  her  presence,  and 


20 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


regretted  continually  having  yielded  to  tlie  impulse  of  liis  heart,  and 
revealed  his  love,  since  he  believed  it  had  augmented  hers. 

By  degrees  he  discontinued  his  visits  at  the  Abbey ; but  often  met 
Lady  Malvina  at  parties  in  the  neighbourhood;  caution,  however, 
always  sealed  his  lips,  and  every  appearance  of  particularity  was 
avoided.  The  time  now  approached  for  the  departure  of  the  regi- 
ment to  Scotland;  and  Lady  Malvina,  instead  of  the  explanation  she 
so  fondly  expected,  so  ardently  desired,  saw  Fitzalan  studious  to 
avoid  her. 

The  disappointment  this  conduct  gave  rise  to  was  too  much  for  the 
tender  and  romantic  heart  of  .Malvina  to  bear,  without  secretly 
repining.  , Society  grew  irksome;  she  became  more  than  ever 
attached  to  solitary  rambles,  which  gave  her  opportunities  of  indulg- 
ing her  sorrows  without  restraint;  sorrows,  pride  often  reproached 
her  for  experiencing. 

It  was  within  a week  of  the  change  of  garrison,  when  Malvina 
repaired  one  evening  to  the  rock,  where  Fitzalaii.  had  disclosed  his 
tenderness ; a similarity  of  feeling  led'  him  thither ; he  saw  his  dan- 
ger, but  he  had  no  power  to.  retreat ; he  sat  down  by  Malvina,  and 
they  conversed  for  some  time  on  different  subjects ; at  last,  after  a 
pause  of  a minute,  Malvina  exclaimed,  “You  go,  then,  Fitzalan, 
never,  never,  I suppose,  to  return  here  again.”  “ ’Tis  probable  I may 
not,  indeed,”  said  he.  “ Then  we  shall  never  meet  again,”  cried  she, 
while  a trickling  tear  stole  down  her  lovely  cheek,  which,  tinged  as 
it  was  with  the  flush  of  agitation,  looked  now  like  a half- blown  rose 
moistened  with  the  dews  of  early  morning. 

“ Yes,  my  lovely  friend,”  said  he,  “ we  shall  meet  again — we  shall 
meet  in  a better  place;  in  that  heaven,”  continued  he,  sighing,  and 
laying  his  cold  trembling  hand  upon  hers,  “Avhich  will  recompense 
all  our  sufferings.”  “You  are  melancholy  to-night,  Fitzalan,”  cried 
Malvina,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate. 

“Oh!  can  you  wonder  at  it?”  exclaimed  he,  overcome  by  hei 
emotion,  and  forgetting  in  a moment  all  his  resolutions;  “Oh!  can 
you  wonder  at  my  melancholy,  when  I know  not  but  that  this  is  the 
mst  time  I shall  see  the  only  woman  I ever  loved — wlien  T know, 
that  in  bidding  her  adieu,  I resign  all  the  pleasure,  the  happiness  of 
my  life'*” 

ALU  vine  could  no  longer  restrain  her  feelings;  she  surL  hia 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


21 


filioulder  and  wept.  “ Good  Heavens,”  cried  Fitzalan,  almost  trem- 
bling beneath  the  lovely  burden  he  supported — “What  a cruel  situ 
ation  is  mine!  But,  Malvina,  I will  not,  cannot  plunge  you  into 
destruction.  Led  by  necessity  as  well  as  choice  to  embrace  the  pro- 
fession of  a soldier,  I have  no  income,  but  what  is  derived  from  that 
profession:  though  my  own  distresses  I could  bear  with  lortitude, 
yours  would  totally  unman  me;  nor  would  my  honour  be  less  injured 
than  m.y  peace,  were  you  involved  in  difficulties  on  my  account. 
Our  separation  is  therefore,  alas,  inevitable.” 

“Oh!  no,”  exclaimed  Malvina,  “the  difficulties  you  have  men- 
tioned will  vanish.  My  father’s  affections  were  early  alienated  from 
me;  and  my  fate  is  of  little  consequence  to  him — nay,  I have  reason 
to  believe  he  will  be  glad  of  an  excuse  for  leaving  his  large  posses- 
sions to  Augusta ; and  oh ! how  little  shall  I envy  her  those  posses- 
sions, if  the  happy  destiny  I now  look  forward  to  is  mine.”  Aq 
she  spoke  her  mild  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  Fitzalan,  who  clasped 
her  to  his  bosom  in  a sudden  transport  of  tenderness.  “ But  though 
my  father  is  partial  to  Augusta,”  continued  she,  “ I am  sure  he  will  not 
be  unnatural  to  me ; and  though  he  may  withhold  affluence,  he  will, 
I am  confident,  allow  me.  a competence — nay.  Lady  Dunreatk. 
believe,  in  pleasure  at  my  removal  from  the  Abbey,  would, 
hesitated,  in  that  respect  become  my  intercessor.” 

The  energy  with  which  Malvina  spoke,  convinced  Fitzalan  of  the 
strength  of  her  affection.  An  extasy,  never  before  felt,  pervaded  his 
soul  at  the  idea  of  being  so  beloved  ; vainly  did  prudence  whisper,  that 
Malvina  might.be  deluding  herself  with  false  hopes;  the  suggestions 
of  love  triumphed  over  every  consideration,  and  again  folding  the  fixii 
being  he  held  in  his  arms,  to  his  heart,  he  soft  y asked,  would  she  at 
all  events  unite  her  destiny  with  his. 

Lady  Malvina,  who  firmly  believed  what  she  had  said  to  him  would 
really  happen,  and  who  deemed  a separation  from  him  the  greatest 
misfortune  which  could  possibly  befall  her,  blushed,  and  faltering, 
yielded  a willing  consent. 

The  means  of  accomplishing  their  wishes  occupied  their  thoughts 
Fitzalan’s  imagination  was  too  fertile  not  soon  to  suggest  a scheme, 
which  had  a probability  of  success ; he  resolved  to  intrust  the  chap  ■ 
lain  of  the  regiment  with  the  affair,  and  request  his  attendance  the 
ensuing  night  in  the  chapel  of  the  Abbey,  where  Lady  Malvina  pro- 


S2  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

mised  to  meet  them  with  her  maid,  on  whose  secrecy  she  thought  she 
could,  rely. 

It  was  settled  that  Fitzalan  should  pay  a visit  the  next  morning  to 
the  Abbey,  and  give  Malvina  a certain  sign,  if  he  succeeded  with  the 
chaplain. 

The  iL^creasing  darkness  at  lengtii  reminded  them  of  the  lateness  of 
the  hour : Fitzalan  conducted  Malvina  to  the  Abbey  gate,  where  they 
separated,  each  involved  in  a tumult  of  hopes,  fears,  and  wishes. 

The  next  morning  Lady  Malvina  brought  her  work  into  her  sister’s 
dressing-room ; at  last  Fitzalan  entered : he  was  attacked  by  Augusta 
for  his  long  absence,  which  he  excused  by  pleading  regimental  busi- 
ness. After  trifling  some  time  with  her,  he  prevailed  upon  her  to  sit 
dovm  to  the  harpsichord ; and  then  glancing  at  Malvina,  he  gave  her 
the  promised  signal. 

Her  conscious  eyes  were  instantly  bent  to  the  groud;  a crimson 
glow  was  suddenly  succeeded  by  a deadly  paleness;  her  head  sunk 
upon  her  bosom ; and  her  agitation  must  have  excited  suspicions,  had 
it  been  perceived;  but  Fitzalan  purposely  bent  over  her  sister,  and 
thus  gave  her  an  opportunity  of  retiring  uunoticed  from  the  room. 
As  soon  as  she  had  regained  a little  composure,  she  called  her  maid? 
and  after  receiving  many  promises  of  secrecy,  unfolded  to  her  the  whole 
affair.  It  was  long  past  midnight  hour  ere  Malvina  would  attempt 
repairing  to  the  chapel ; when  she  at  last  rose  for  that  purpose,  she 
trembled  universally ; a kind  of  horror  chilled  her  heart ; she  began 
to  fear  she  was  about  doing  wrong,  and  hesitated;  but  when  she 
reflected  on  the  noble  generosity  of  Fitzalan,  and  that  she  herself  had 
precipitated  him  to  the  measure  they  were  about  taking ; her  hesita- 
tion was  over ; and  leaning  on  her  maid,  she  stole  through  the  wind- 
ing galleries,  and  lightly  descending  the  stairs,  entered  the  long  haU, 
which  terminated  in  a dark  arched  passage,  that  opened  into  the 
chapel. 

This  was  a wild  and  gloomy  structure,  retaining  every  where 
vestiges  of  that  monkish  superstition  which  had  erected  it ; beneath 
it  were  the  vaults  which  contained  the  ancestors  of  the  earl  of 
Dunreath,  whose  deeds  and  titles  were  enumerated  on  gothic  monu- 
ments, their  dust-oovered  banners  waving  around  in  sullen  dignity  to 
the  fude  gale,  wnich  found  admittance  through  the  broken  win- 
dows. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


23 


Hie  light  whioli  the  maid  held  produced  deep  shadows  that  height- 
ened  the  solemnity  of  the  place. 

They  are  not  here,”  said  Malvina,  casting  her  fearful  eyes  around. 
She  went  to  the  door  which  opened  into  the  thick  wood ; but  here 
she  only  heard  the  breeze  rustling  amongst  the  trees ; she  turned 
from  it,  and  sinking  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar,  gave  way  to  an 
agony  of  tears  and  lamentations.  A low  murmur  reached  her  ear ; 
she  started  up ; the  chapel  door  was  gently  pushed  open,  and  Fitzalan 
entered  with  the  chaplain ; they  had  been  watching  in  the  wood  for 
the  appearance  of  light.  Malvina  was  supported  to  the  altar,  and  a 
few  minutes  made  her  the  wife  of  Fitzalan. 

She  had  not  courage,  till  within  a day  or  two  previous  to  the 
regiment’s  departure  from  Scotland,  to  acquaint  the  earl  with  her 
marriage;  the  countess  already  knew  it,  through  the  means  of 
Malvina’s  woman,  who  was  a creature  of  her  own.  Lady  Dunreath 
exulted  at  the  prospect  of  Malvina’s  ruin;  it  at  once  gratified  the 
malevolence  of  her  soul,  and  the  avaricious  desires  she  had  of 
increasing  her  own  daughter’s  fortune:  she  had,  besides,  another 
reason  to  rejoice  at  it : this  was,  the  attachment  Lady  Augusta  had 
formed  for  Fitzalan,  which,  her  mother  feared,  would  have  preci- 
pitated her  into  a step  as  imprudent  as  her  sister’s,  had  she  not  been 
before  with  her. 

This  fear  the  impetuous  passion  of  Lady  Augusta  naturally  excited. 
She  really  loved  Fitzalan : a degree  of  frantic  rage  possessed  her  at 
his  marriage;  she  cursed  her  sister  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart, 
and  joined  with  Lady  Dunreath  in  working  up  the  earl’s  naturally 
austere  and  violent  passion  into  such  a paroxysm  of  fury  and  resent- 
ment, that  he  at  last  solemnly  refused  forgiveness  to  Malvina,  and  bid 
her  never  more  appear  in  his  presence. 

She  Qow  began  to  tread  the  thorny  path  of  life ; and  though  her 
guide  was  tender  and  afiTectionate,  nothing  could  allay  her  anguish 
for  h^^ing  involved  him  in  diflSculties,  which  his  noble  spirit  could 
ill  brook  or  struggle  against.  The  first  year  of  their  union  she  had  a 
son,  who  was  called  after  her  fatlier,  Oscar  Dunreath : the  four  year? 
that  succeeded  his  birth  were  passed  in  wretchedness  that  baffles 
description.  At  the  expiration  of  this  period  their  debts  were  so 
increased,  Fitzalan  was  compelled  to  sell  out  on  half-pay.  Lady 
Malvina  now  expected  an  addition  to  her  family;  lier  siUiation,  she 


24 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


toped,  would  move  lier  father’s  heart,  and  she  resolved  to  essa}^ 
every  thing  which  afforded  the  smallest  prospect  of  obtaining  comfort 
for  her  husband  and  his  babes:  therefore  she  prevailed  on  him  to 
carry  her  to  Scotland. 

They  lodged  at  a peasant’s  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Abbey ; he 
informed  them  that  the  earl’s  infirmities  were  increasing,  and  that 
Lady  Dunreath  had  just  celebrated  her  daughter’s  marriage  with  the 
marquis  of  Eoseline.  This  nobleman  had  passionately  admired  I^ady 
Malvina:  an  admiration  the  countess  always  wished  to  transfer  to 
her  daughter.  On  the  marriage  of  Malvina  he  went  abroad : his 
passion  was  conquered  ere  he  returned  to  Scotland ; and  he  disdained 
not  the  overtures  made  for  his  alliance  from  the  Abbey.  His 
favourite  propensities,  pride  and  avarice,  were  gratified  by  the  earl 
of  Dunreath’s  sole  heiress. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  Lady  Malvina  sent  little  Oscar,  with  the 
old  peasant,  to  the  Abbey : Oscar  was  a perfect  cherub. 

The  bloom  of  op’ning  flowers’  unsullied  beauty, 

Softness  and  sweetest  innocence  he  wore, 

And  look’d  like  nature  in  the  world’s  first  spring. 

Lady  Malvina  gave  him  a letter  for  the  earl,  in  which,  after  pathet- 
ic^a%  describing  her  situation,  she  besought  him  to  let  the  uplifted 
hands  of  innocence  plead  her  cause.  The  peasant  watclied  till  the 
hour  came  for  Lady  Dunreath  to  go  out  in  her  carriage,  as  was  her 
daily  custom:  he  then  desired  to  be  conducted  to  the  earl,  and  was 
accordingly  ushered  into  his  presence ; he  found  him  alone,  and  briefly 
informed  him  of  his  errand.  The  earl  frowned  and  looked  agitated, 
but  did  not  by  any  means  express  that  displeasure  which  the  peasant 
had  expected:  feeling  for  himself,  indeed,-  had.  lately  softened  his 
heart;  he  was  unhappy;  his  wife  and  daughter  had  attained  tlie 
completion  of  their  wishes,  and  no  longer  paid  him  the  attention  his 
age  required.  He  refused,  however,  to  accept  the  letter : little  Oscar, 
vfho  had  been  gazing  on  him  from  the  moment  he  entered  the  apart- 
ment, now  ran  forward,  gently  stroking  his  hand ; he  smiled  in  his 
face  and  exclaimed,  ‘‘Ah!  pray  do— take  poor  mamma’s  letter.”  The 
earl  involuntarily  took  it;  as  he  read,  the  muscles  of  his  face  began  to 
work,  and  a tear  dropped  from  him,  “Poor  mamma  cries  too,”  said 
Oscar^  upon  whose  hand  the  tear  fcb.  “‘\Yby  did  ypui  inamina  send 


CHILDREN  OPTHK  ABBEY,  25 

you  to  me  ?”  said  the  earl.  “ Because  she  said,”  cried  Oscar,  “ that 
you  are  my  grandpapa — and  she  bids  me  love  you,  and  teaches  me 
every  day  to  pray  for  you.”  “Heaven  bless  you,  my  lovely  prattler,” 
exclaimed  the  earl,  with  sudden  emotion,  patting  his  head  as  he  spoke. 
At  this  moment  Lady  Dunreath  rushed  into  the  apartment ; one  of  her 
favourites  had  followed  her,  to  relate  the  scene  that  was  going 
forward  within  it,  and  she  returned  with  all  possible  expedition  to 
counteract  any  dangerous  impressions  that  might  be  made  upon  the 
earl’s  mind.  Rage  inflamed  her  countenance:  the  earl  knew  the 
Violence  of  her  temper;  he  was  unequal  to  contention,  and  hastily 
mv^tioned  for  the  peasant  to  retire  with  the  child.  The  account  of  his 
re^ption  excited  the  most  flattering  hopes  in  the  bosom  of  his 
mUher;  she  counted  the  tedious  hours,  in  expectation  of  a kind 
smamons  to  the  Abbey ; but  no  such  summons  came.  The  next 
morning  the  child  was  sent  to  it ; hut  the  porter  refused  him  admit- 
tance, by  the  express  command  of  the  earl,  he  said.  Frightened  at 
his  rudeness,  the  child  returned,  weeping  to  his  mother,  whose  blasted 
expectations  wrung  her  heart  with  agony,  and  tears  and  lamentations 
broke  from  her.  The  evening  was  far  advanced,  when  suddenly  her 
features  brightened;  “I  will  go,”  cried  she,  starting  up— “I  will 
again  try  to  melt  his  obduracy.  Oh  I with  what  lowliness  should  a 
child  bend  before  an  offended  parent.  Oh  I with  what  fortitude,  what 
patience,  should  a wife,  a mother,  try  to  overcome  difficulties,  which 
she  is  conscious  of  having  precipitated  the  object  of  her  tenderest 
affections  into.” 

The  night  was  dark  and  tempestuous : she  would  not  suffer  Fitzalan 
to  attend  her,  but  she  proceeded  to  the  Abbey,  leaning  on  the  peas- 
ant’s arm.  She  would  not  be  repulsed  at  the  door,  but  forced  her  way 
into  the  hall : here  Lady  Dunreath  met  her,  and,  with  mingled  pride 
and  cruelty,  refused  her  access  to  her  father,  declaring  it  was  by  his 
deoire  she  did  so.  “Let  me  but  see  him  for  a moment,”  said  the 
lovely  suppliant,  clasping  her  white  and  emaciated  hands  together — 
“by  all  that  is  tender  in  humanity,  I beseech  you  to  grant  my 
request.”  “Turn  this  frantic  woman  from  the  Abbey,”  said  the 
implacable  Lady  Dunreath,  trembling  with  passion — “ at  your  peril 
suffer  her  not  to  continue  here. — The  peace  of  your  lord  is  too  pre- 
cious to  be  disturbed  by  her  exclamations.” 

This  imperious  order  was  instantly  pbeyed,  though,  as  Cordelia 

2 


26 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


says,  ‘‘  it  was  a night  when  one  would  not  have  turned  an  enemy’s 
dog  from  the  door.”  The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents:  the  sea 
roared  with  awful  violence : and  the  wind  raged  through  the  wood  as 
if  it  would  tear  up  the  trees  by  the  roots.  The  peasant  charitably 
flung  his  plaid  over  Malvina;  she  moved  mechanically  along;  her 
senses  appeared  quite  stupefied ; Fitzalan  watched  for  her  at  the  door ; 
she  rushed  into  his  extended  arms,  and  fainted,  and  it  was  long  era 
she  showed  any  symptoms  of  returning  life.  Fitzalan  wept  over  hex 
in  the  anguish  and  distraction  of  his  soul ; and  scarcely  could  he  for- 
bear execrating  the  being  who  had  so  grievously  afflicted  her  gentU 
s|’rit;  by  degrees  she  revived,  and  as  she  jjressed  him  feebly  to  hex 
breast,  exclaimed,  ‘‘The  fatal  stroke  is  given — I have  been  turned 
from  my  father’s  door.” 

The  cottage  in  which  they  lodged  afforded  but  few  of  the  necessa- 
ries, and  none  of  the  comforts  of  life ; such  at  least,  as  they  had  been 
accustomed  to.  In  Malvina’s  present  situation,  Fitzalan  dreaded  the 
loss  of  her  life,  should  they  continue  in  their  present  abode ; but, 
whither  could  he  take  her,  wanderer  as  he  was  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth  ? At  length  the  faithful  Edwin  occurred  to  his  recollection ; his 
house,  he  was  confident,  would  afford  them  a comfortable  asylum 
where  Lady  Malvina  would  experience  all  that  tenderness  and  care 
her  situation  demanded. 

He  immediately  set  about  procuring  a conveyance,  and  the  follow  ^ 
ing  morning  Malvina  bade  a last  adieu  to  Scotland. 

Lady  Dunreath,  in  the  mean  time,  suffered  torture : after  she  had 
seen  Malvina  turned  from  the  Abbey,  she  retired  to  her  apartment 
it  was  furnished  with  the  most  luxurious  elegance,  yet  could  she  not 
rest  within  it.  Conscience  already  told  her,  if  Malvina  died,  she  must 
consider  herself  her  murderer ; her  pale  and  wo-worn  image  seemed 
still  before  her ; a cold  terror  oppressed  her  heart,  which  the  horrors 
of  the  night  augmented ; the  tempest  shook  the  battlements  of  th^ 
Abbey,  and  the' wind,  which  howled  through  the  galleries,  seemed  like 
the  last  moans  of  some  wandering  spirit  of  the  pile,  bewailing  the  fate 
of  one  of  its  fairest,  daughters.  To  cruelty  and  ingratitude  Lady  Dun- 
reath had  added  deceit:  her  lord  was  yielding  to  the  solicitations  of 
his  child,  when  she  counteracted  his  intentions  by  a tale  of  falsehood. 
The  visions  of  the  night  were  also  dreadful ; Malvina  appeared 
expiring  before  her ; and  the  late  Lady  Dunreath,  by  lier  bed-side, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


27 


reproacliing  her  barbarity.  “ Oh  cruel !”  the  ghastly  figure  seemed 
to  say,  “ is  it  you,  whom  I fostered  in  my  bosom,  that  have  done 
this  deed — driven  forth  my  child,  a forlorn  and  wretched  wan- 
derer!’ 

Oh  Conscience,  how  awful  are  thy  terrors  I thou  art  the  vicegerent 
of  heaven,  and  anticipate  its  vengeance,  ere  the  final  hour  of  retribu- 
tion arrives.  Guilt  may  be  triumphant,  but  never,  never  can  be 
happy : it  finds  no  shield  against  thy  stings  and  arrows.  Tlie  heart 
thou  smitest  bleeds  in  every  pore,  and  sighs  amidst  gaiety  and  splen- 
dour. 

The  unfortunate  travellers  were  welcomed  with  the  truest  hospital- 
ity by  the  grateful  Edwin ; he  had  married,  soon  after  his  return  from 
America,  a young  girl  to  whom,  from  his  earliest  youth,  he  was 
attached.  His  parents  died  soon  after  his  union ; the  whole  of  their 
little  patrimony  devolved  to  him.  Soothed  and  attended  with  the 
utmost  tenderness  and  respect,  Fitzalan  hoped  Lady  Malvina  would 
here  regain  her  health  and  peace:  he  intended  after  her  recovery,  to 
endeavour  to  be  put  on  full  pay ; and  trusted  he  should  prevail  on 
her  to  continue  at  the  farm. 

At  length  the  hour  came,  in  which  she  gave  a daughter  to  his  arras. 
From  the  beginning  of  her  illness,  the  people  about  her  were  alarmed ; 
too  soon  was  it  proved  their  alarms  were  well  founded ; she  lived 
after  the  birth  of  her  infant  but  a few  minutes,  and  died  embracing 
her  husband,  and  blessing  his  child. 

Fitzalan’s  feelings  cannot  well  be  described ; they  were  at  first  too 
much  for  reason,  and  he  continued  some  time  in  perfect  stupefaction. 
When  he  regained  his  sensibility,  his  grief  was  not  outrageous ; it 
was  that  deep,  still  sorrow,  which  fastens  on  the  heart,  and  cannot 
vent  itself  in  tears  or  lamentations : he  sat  with  calmness  by  the  bed, 
where  the  remains  of  Malvina  lay : he  gazed  without  shrinking,  on 
her  pale  face,  which  death,  as  if  in  pity  to  his  feelings,  had  not  disfig- 
ured ; he  kissed  her  cold  lips,  continually  exclaiming,  “ Oh  ! had  w^> 
never  met,  she  might  still  have  been  living.”  His  language  waj# 
something  like  that  of  a poet  of  her  own  country ; 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 

I met  thee  in  a luckless  hour. 

It  was  when  he  saw  them  about  removing  her  that  all  the  tempest 


28 


OHILDREK  OF  THE  ASSET 


of  his  grief  broke  forth.  Oh ! how  impossible  to  describe  the  anguish 
of  the  poor  widower’s  heart  when  he  returned  from  seeing  his  Mal- 
vina laid  in  her  last  receptacle  I He  shut  himself  up  in  the  room 
where  she  had  expired,  and  ordered  no  one  to  approach  him ; ho 
threw  himself  upon  the  bed ; he  laid  his  cheek  upon  her  pillow,  he 
grasped  it  to  his  bosom,  he  wetted  it  with  tears,  because  she  had 
breathed  upon  it.  Oh  how  still,  how  dreary,  how  desolate,  did  all 
appear  around  himl  “And  shall  this  desolation  never  more  be 
enlivened,”  he  exclaimed,  “by  the  soft  music  of  Malvina’s  voice? 
shall  these  eyes  never  more  be  cheered  by  beholding  her  angelic 
face?”  Exhausted  by  his  feelings,  he  sunk  into  a slumber;  ho 
dreamed  of  Malvina,  and  thought  she  lay  beside  him  ; he  awoke  with 
sudden  extasy,  and,  under  the  strong  impression  of  the  dream,  ho 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  enfold  her.  Alas ! all  was  empty  void : ho 
started  up : he  groaned  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul : he  traversed  the 
room  with  a distracted  pace ; he  sat  him  down  in  the  little  window 
from  whence  he  could  view  the  spire  of  the  church  (now  glistening 
in  the  moon-beams),  by  which  she  was  interred.  “ Deep,  still,  and 
profound,”  cried  he,  “ is  the  sleep  of  my  Malvina — the  voice  of  love 
cannot  awake  her  from  it ; nor  does  she  now  dream  of  her  midnight 
mourner.” 

The  cold  breeze  of  night  blew  upon  his  forehead,  but  he  heeded  it 
not;  his  whole  soul  was  full  of  Malvina,  whom  torturing  fancy  repre- 
sented to  his  view  in  the  habiliments  of  the  grave.  “ And  is  this 
emaciated  form,  this  pale  face,”  he  exclaimed,  as  if  he  had  really  seen 
her,  “ all  that  remains  of  elegance  and  beauty,  once  unequalled  ?” 

A native  sense  of  religion  only  checked  the  transports  of  his  grief ; 
that  sweet,  that  sacred  power  which  pours  balm  upon  the  wounds  of 
sorrow,  and  saves  its  children  from  despair;  that  power  whispered  to 
his  heart,  a patient  submission  to  the  will  of  heaven  was  the  surest 
means  he  could  attain  of  again  rejoining  his  Malvina. 

She  was  interred  in  the  village  church-yard;  at  the  head  of  her 
grave  a stone  was  placed,  on  which  was  rudely  cut, 

MALYIHA  FITZALAM, 

ALIKE  LOVELY  AND  UNFORTUNATE. 

Fitzalan  would  not  permit  her  empty  title  to  be  put  on  it;  “ She  U 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY, 


29 


buried,”  he  said,  “ as  the  wife  of  a wretched  soldier,  not  as  th^ 
daughter  of  a wealthy  peer.” 

She  had  requested  her  infant  might  he  called  after  her  own  mother : 
her  request  was  sacred  to  Fitzalan,  and  it  was  baptized  by  the  united 
names  of  Amanda  Malvina.  Mrs.  Edwin  was  then  nursing  her  first 
girl:  but  she  sent  it  out,  and  took  the  infant  of  Fitzalan  in  its  placo 
to  her  bosom. 

The  money  which  Fitzalan  had  procured  by  disposing  of  his  com- 
mission, was  now  nearly  exhausted ; but  his  mind  was  too  enervated 
to  allow  him  to  think  of  any  project  for  future  support.  Lady  Mal- 
vina was  deceased  two  months,  when  a nobleman  came  into  the 
neighbourhood,,  with  whom  Fitzalan  had  once  been  intimately 
acquainted;  the  acquaintance  was  ':iow  renewed;  and  Fitzalan’s 
appearance,  with  the  little  history  of  his  misfortunes,  so  much 
affected  and  interested  his  friend,  that  without  solicitation  he  pro- 
cured him  a company  in  a regiment,  then  stationed  in  England. 
Thus  did  Fitzalan  again  enter  into  active  life ; but  his  spirits  were 
broken,  and  his  constitution  injured.  Four  years  he  continued  in  the 
army ; when  pining  to  have  his  children  (all  that  now  remained  of  a 
woman  he  adored)  under  his  own  care,  he  obtained,  through  the 
interest  of  a friend,  leave  to  sell  out ; Oscar  was  then  eight,  and 
Amanda  four;  the  delighted  father,  as  he  held  them  to  his  heart, 
wept  over  them  tears  of  mingled  pain  and  pleasure. 

He  had  seen  in  Devonshire,  where  he  was  quartered  for  some  time, 
a little  romantic  solitude,  quite  adapted  to  his  taste  and  finances : he 
proposed  for  it,  and  soon  became  its  proprietor.  Hither  he  carried 
his  children  much  against  the  inclinations  of  the  Edwins,  who  loved 
them  as  their  own ; two  excellent  schools  in  the  neighbourhood  gave 
them  the  usual  advantages  of  genteel  education ; but  as  they  were 
only  day  scholars,  the  improvement,  or  rather  forming  of  their 
morals,  was  the  pleasing  task  of  their  father.  To  his  assiduous  care, 
too,  they  were  indebted  for  the  rapid  progress  they  made  in  their 
studies,  and  for  the  graceful  simplicity  of  their  manners; 
rewarded  his  care,  and  grew  up  as  amiable  and  lovely  as  his  fondest 
wishes  could  desire. — As  Oscar  advanced  in  life,  his  father  began  to 
experience  new  cares ; for  he  had  not  the  power  of  putting  him  in 
the  way  of  making  any  provision  for  himself.  A military  life  was 
what  Oscar  appeared  anxious  for ; he  had  early  conceived  a prechleo- 


80 


CHILDREN  OFTHE  ABBEY. 


tion  for  it,  from  hearing  liis  father  speak  of  the  services  he  had  seen: 
but  though  he  possessed  quite  the  spirit  of  a hero,  he  had  the  truest 
tenderness,  the  most  engaging  softness  of  disposition ; his  temper  was, 
indeed,  at  once,  mild,  artless,  and  affectionate.  He  was  about  eighteen, 
wdien  the  proprietor  of  the  estate  on  which  his  father  held  his  farm, 
died,  and  his  heir,  a colonel  in  the  army,  immediately  came  down 
from  London  to  take  formal  possession ; he  soon  became  acquainted 
with  Fitzalan,  who,  in  the  course  of  conversation  one  day,  expressed 
the  anxiety  he  suffered  on  his  son’s  account.  The  colonel  said  he  was 
a fine  youth,  and  it  was  a pity  he  was  not  provided  for : he  left  Devon- 
shire, however,  shortly  after  this,  without  appearing  in  the  least 
interested  about  him. 

Fitzalan’s  heart  was  oppressed  with  anxiety ; he  could  not  purchase 
for  his  son  without  depriving  himself  of  support.  With  the  noble- 
man who  had  formerly  served  him  so  essentially,  he  had  kept  up 
no  intercourse  since  he  quitted  the  army ; but  he  frequently  heard  of 
him,  and  was  told  he  had  become  quite  a man  of,  the  world,  which 
was  an  implication  of  his  having  lost  all  feeling : an  application  to 
him,  therefore,  he  feared  would  be  unavailing,  and  he  felt  too  proud 
to  subject  himself  to  a repulse. 

From  this  disquietude  he  was  unexpectedly  relieved  by  a letter 
from  the  earl  of  Cherbury,  his  yet  kind  friend,  informing  him  he  had 
procured  an  ensigney  for  Oscar,  in  Colonel  Belgrave’s  regiment,  which 
he  considered  a very  fortunate  circumstance,  as  the  colonel,  he  was 
confident,  from  personally  knowing  the  young  gentleman,  would 
render  him  every  service  in  his  power.  The  earl  chid  Fitzalan  for 
never  having  kept  up  a correspondence  with  him ; assured  him  he 
had  never  forgotten  the  friendship  of  their  earlier  years ; and  that  he 
had  gladly  seized  the  first  opportunity  which  offered,  of  serving  him 
in  the  person  of  his  son,  which  opportunity  he  was  indebted  to 
Colonel  Belgrave  for. 

Fitzalan’s  soul  was  filled  with  gratitude  and  rapture;  he  imme- 
diately wrote  to  the  earl  and  the  colonel,  in  terms  expressive  of  his 
feelings.  Colonel  Belgrave  received  his  thanks  as  if  he  had  really 
deserved  them ; but  this  was  not  by  any  means  the  case ; he  was  a 
man  devoid  of  sensibility,  and  had  never  once  thought  of  serving 
Fitzalan  and  his  son ; his  mentioning  them  was  merely  accidental. 

In  a large  company,  of  which  the  earl  of  Cherbury  was  one,  the 


GUILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


SI 


discourse  happened  to  turn  on  the  Dunreath  family,  and  by  degree# 
to  Fitzalan,  who  was  severely  blamed  and  pitied  for  his  connexion 
wUh  it;  the  subject  was,  in  the  opinion  of  Colonel  Belgrade,  so 
apropos,  he  could  not  forbear  describing  his  present  situation  and 
inquietude  about  his  son,  who,  he  said,  he  fancied  must,  like  a second 
Cincinnatus,  take  the  plough-share  instead  of  the  sword. 

Lord  Cherbury  lost  no  part  of  this  discourse ; though  immersed  in 
politics  and  other  intrinsic  concerns,  he  yet  retained,  and  was  ready 
to  obey,  the  dictates  of  humanity,  particularly  when  they  did  not 
interfere  with  his  own  interests ; he  therefore  directly  conceived  the 
design  of  serving  his  old  friend. 

Oscar  soon  quitted  Devonshire  after  his  appointment,  and  brought 
a letter  from  his  father  to  the  colonel,  in  which  he  was  strongly 
recommended  to  his  protection,  as  one  unskilled  in  the  ways  of  men. 

And  now  all  Fitzalan’s  care  devolved  upon  Amanda:  and  most 
amply  did  she  recompense  it.  To  the  improvement  of  her  genius, 
the  cultivation  of  her  talents,  the  promotion  of  her  father’s  happi 
ness  seemed  her  first  incentive;  without  him  no  amusement  wafe 
enjoyed,  without  him  no  study  entered  upon;  he  was  her  friend, 
guardian,  and  protector;  and  no  language  can  express,  no  heart 
(except  a paternal  one)  conceive  the  rapture  he  felt,  at  seeing  a 
creature  grow  under 

his  forming  hand 

80  fair, 

That  what  seemed  fair,  in  all  the  world,  seem’d  now 
Mean,  or  in  her  contain’d. 

Some  years  had  elapsed  since  Oscar’s  departure,  ere  Colonel  Bel- 
•crave  returned  into  their  neighbourhood;  he  came  soon  after  his 
nuptials  had  been  celebrated  in  Ireland,  with  a lady  of  that  country, 
whom  Oscar’s  letters  described  as  possessing  every  personal  and 
mental  charm,  which  could  please  or  captivate  the  heart.  Colonel 
Belgrave  came  unaccompanied  by  his  fair  bride.  Fitzalan,  who 
believed  him  his  benefactor,  and  consequently  regarded  him  as  a 
friend  (still  thinking  it  was  through  his  means  Lord  Cherbury  had 
served  him,)  immediately  waited  upon  him,  and  invited  him  to  his 
house.  The  invitation  after  some  time  was  accepted;  but  had  he 
imagined  what  aa  attraction  the  house  contained,  he  would  have  long 
hesitated  about  entering  it;  he  was  a man,  indeed,  of  the  most 


n 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


depraved  principles,  and  an  object  he  admired,  no  tie  or  situation, 
however  sacred,  could  guard  from  his  pursuit. 

Amanda  was  too  much  a child,  when  he  was  last  in  the  country,  to 
attidct  his  observation : he  had  therefore  no  idea  that  the  blo;.3om  he 
then  so  carelessly  overlooked  had  since  expanded  in  such  beauty. 

How  great  was  then  his  rapture  and  surprise,  when  Fitzalan  led 
into  the  room  where  he  had  received  him,  a tall,  elegantly  formed 
girl,  whose  rosy  cheeks  were  dimpled  with  the  softest  smile  of  com- 
placence, and  whose  fine  blue  eyes  beamed  with  modesty  and  grati- 
tude upon  him.  He  instantly  marked  her  for  his  prey,  and  blessed 
his  lucky  stars,  which  had  inspired  Fitzalan  with  the  idea  of  his 
being  his  benefactor,  since  that  would  give  him  a freer  access  to 
the  house  than  he  could  otherwise  have  hoped  for. 

From  this  time  he  became  almost  an  inmate  of  it,  except  when  he 
chose  to  contrive  little  parties  at  his  own,  for  Amanda : he  took  every 
opportunity  that  ofiered,  without  observation,  to  try  to  ingratiate 
himself  into  her  favour ; these  opportunities  the  unsuspecting  temper 
of  Fitzalan  allowed  to  be  frequent ; he  would  as  soon  have  trusted 
Amanda  to  the  care  of  Belgrave,  as  to  that  of  her  brother,  and 
never,  therefore,  prevented  her  walking  out  with  him,  when  he 
desired  it,  or  receiving  him  in  the  morning,  while  he  (himself)  was 
absent  about  the  affairs  of  his  farm ; delighted  to  think  the  conversa- 
tion or  talents  of  his  daughter  (for  Amanda  frequently  sung  and 
played  for  the  colonel)  could  contribute  to  the  amusement  of  his 
friend.  Amanda  innocently  increased  his  fiame,  by  the  attention  she 
paid,  which  she  considered  but  a just  tribute  of  gratitude  for  his 
services:  she  delighted  in  talking  to  him  of  her  dear  Oscar;  and 
often  mentioned  his  lady,  but  wfi£  surprised  to  find  he  always  waved 
the  latter  subject. 

Belgrave  could  no  longer  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  his  passions ; 
the  situation  of  Fitzalan  (which  he  knew  to  be  a distressed  one) 
would,  he  fancied,  forward  his  designs  on  his  daughter ; and  what 
those  designs  were,  he,  by  degrees,  in  a retired  walk  one  day, 
unfolded  to  Amanda. 

At  first  she  did  not  perfectly  understand  liim;  but  when,  with 
increased  audacity,  he  explained  himself  more  fully,  horror,  indigna- 
tion and  surprise,  took  possession  of  her  breast,  and  yielding  to  their 
feelings,  she  turned  and  fled  to  the  house,  as  if  from  a monster. 


CHILDREN  THE  ABBEY. 


39 


Belgrave  was  provoked  and  mortified : the  softness  of  her  manners 
had  tempted  him  to  believe  he  was  not  indifferent  to  her,  and  that 
she  would  prove  an  easy  conquest. 

Poor  Amanda  would  not  appear  in  the  presence  of  her  father,  tih 
she  had  in  some  degree  regained  composure,  as  she  feared  tho 
smallest  intimation  of  the  affair  might  occasion  fatal  consequences : 
as  she  sat  with  him,  a letter  was  brought  her ; she  could  not  think 
Belgrave  would  have  the  effrontery  to  write,  and  opened  it,  supposing 
it  came  from  some  acquaintance  in  the  neighbourhood.  How  great 
was  the  shock  she  sustained  on  finding  it  from  him ! having  thrown 
off  the  mask,  he  determined  no  longer  to  assume  any  disguise.  Her 
paleness  and  confusion  alarmed  her  father,  and  he  instantly  demanded 
the  cause  of  her  agitation ; she  found  longer  concealment  was  impossi- 
ble, and  throwing  herself  at  her  father’s  feet,  besought  him,  as  she 
put  the  letter  into  his  hands,  to  restrain  his  passion.  When  he 
perused  it,  he  raised  her  up,  and  commanded  her  as  she  valued  his 
love  or  happiness,  to  inform  him  of  every  particular,  relative  to  the 
insult  she  had  received : she  obeyed,  though  terrified  to  behold  her 
father  trembling  with  emotion.  When  she  concluded,  he  tenderly 
embraced  her,  and  bidding  her  confine  herself  to  the  house,  rose,  and 
took  down  his  hat : it  was  easy  to  guess  whither  he  was  going ; her 
terror  increased,  and  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  she  besought  him 
not  to  risk  his  safety.  He  commanded  her  silence  with  a sternness 
never  before  assumed ; his  manner  awed  her ; but  when  she  saw  him 
leaving  the  room,  her  feelings  could  no  longer  be  controlled;  she 
rushed  after  him,  and  flinging  her  arms  round  his  neck  fainted  on  it. 
In  this  situation,  the  unhappy  father  was  compelled  to  leave  her  to 
the  care  of  a maid,  lest  her  pathetic  remonstrances  should  delay  the 
vengeance  he  resolved  to  take  on  a wretch,  who  had  meditated  a 
deed  of  such  atrocity  against  his  peace.  But  Belgrave  was  not  to  bo 
found.  Scarcely,  however,  had  Fitzalan  returned  to  his  half-distracted 
daughter,  ere  a letter  was  brought  him  from  the  wretch,  in  which  he 
made  the  most  degrading  proposals,  and  bid  Fitzalan  beware  how  he 
answered  them,  as  his  situation  had  put  him  entirely  into  his 
power. 

This  was  a fatal  truth ; Fitzalan  had  been  tempted  to  make  a large 
addition  to  his  farm,  from  an  idea  of  turning  the  little  money  he 
possessed  to  advantage,  but  was  more  ignorant  of  agriculture  than  ho 

2^ 


34  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 

ima4^'«ed,  and  this  ignorance,  joined  to  his  own  integrity  of  heart, 
render  mg  him  the  dupe  of  some  designing  wretches  in  his  neighbour- 
hood, his  whole  stock  dwindled  away  in  unprofitable  experiments 
and  he  was  now  considerably  in  arrears  with  Belgrave. 

The  ungenerous  advantage  he  strove  to  take  of  his  situation, 
increased,  if  possible,  his  indignation ; and  again  he  sought  him,  but 
btill  without  success. 

Belgrave  soon  found  no  temptation  of  prosperity  would  prevail  on 
the  father  or  daughter  to  accede  to  his  wishes ; he  therefore  resolved 
to  try  whether  the  pressure  of  adversity  would  render  them  more 
complying,  and  left  the  country,  having  first  ordered  his  steward  to 
proceed  directly  against  Fitzalan. 

The  consequence  of  his  order  was  an  immediate  execution  on  his 
efiects:  and,  but  for  the  assistance  of  a good-natured  farmer,  he 
would  have  been  arrested.  By  this  means,  and  under  favour  of 
night,  he  and  Amanda  set  out  for  London ; they  arrived  there  in  safety, 
and  retired  to  obscure  lodgings.  In  this  hour  of  distress,  Fitzalan 
conquered  all  false  pride,  and  wrote  to  Lord  Oherbury,  entreating 
him  to  procure  some  employment  which  would  relieve  his  present 
distressing  situation ; he  cautiously  concealed  every  thing  relative  to 
Belgrave ; he  could  not  bear  that  it  should  be  known  that  he  had 
ever  been  degraded  by  his  infamous  proposals. 

Oscar’s  safety,  too,  he  knew,  depended  on  his  secrecy ; as  he  was 
well  convinced,  no  idea  of  danger,  or  elevation  of  rank,  would  secure 
the  wretch  from  his  fury,  who  had  meditated  so  great  an  injury 
against  his  sister. 

He  had  the  mortification  of  having  the  letter  he  sent  to  Lord  Oher- 
bury returned,  as  his  lordship  was  then  absent  from  town ; nor  was 
he  expected  for  some  months,  having  gone  on  an  excursion  of 
pleasure  to  France.  Some  of  these  months  had  lingered  away  in  all 
the  horrors  of  anxiety  and  distress,  when  Fitzalan  formed  the  reso- 
lution of  sending  Amanda  into  Wales,  whose  health  had  considerably 
sufiered  from  the  complicated  uneasiness  and  terror  she  experienced 
on  her  own  and  her  father’s  account. 

Belgrave  had  traced  the  fugitives;  and  though  Fitzalan  was 
guarded  against  all  the  stratagems  he  used  to  have  him  arrested,  he 
found  means  to  have  letters  conveyed  to  Amanda,  full  of  base  solici- 
tations, and  insolent  declarations;  that  the  rigour  he  freated  her 


CniLDRKN  OF  THfe  ABBET,  S5 

father  with  was  quite  against  his  feelings,  and  should  instantly  be 
withdrawn,  if  he  acceded  to  the  proposals  he  made  for  her. 

But  though  Fitzalan  had  determined  to  send  Amanda  into  Wales^ 
with  whom  could  he  trust  his  heart’s  best  treasure  ? At  last  the  son 
of  the  worthy  farmer,  who  had  assisted  him  in  his  journey  to  Lon- 
don, occurred  to  his  remembrance:  he  came  often  to  town,  and 
always  called  upon  Fitzalan.  The  young  man,  the  moment  it  was 
proposed,  expressed  the  greatest  readiness  to  attend  Miss  Fitzalan. 
As  every  precaution  was  necessary,  her  father  made  her  take  the 
name  of  Dunford,  and  travel  in  the  mail  coach  for  the  greater 
security.  He  divided  the  contents  of  his  purse  with  her,  and  recom- 
mending this  lovely  and  most  beloved  child  to  the  protection  of 
Heaven,  saw  her  depart  with  mingled  pain  and  pleasure,  promising 
to  give  her  the  earliest  intelligence  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  arrival  in 
town,  which  he  supposed  would  fix  his  future  destiny.  Previous  to 
her  departure  he  wrote  to  the  Edwins,  informing  them  of  her 
intended  visit,  and  also  her  change  of  name  for  the  present. — This 
latter  circumstance,  which  was  not  satisfactorily  accounted  for, 
excited  their  warmest  curiosity ; and  not  thinking  it  proper  to  ask 
Amanda  to  gratify  it,  they,  to  use  their  own  words,  sifted  her  com- 
panion, who  hesitated  not  to  inform  them  of  the  indignities  she  had 
Buifered  from  Colonel  Belgrave,  which  were  well  known  about  his 
neighbourhood. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Tliy  grave — shall  with  fresh  flowers  be  drest^ 

And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast ; 

There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow, 

There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow. 

Pope. 

A GENTLE  noise  in  her  chamber  roused  Amanda  from  a light 
refreshing  slumber,  and  she  beheld  her  nurse  standing  by  her  bed- 
side, with  a bowl  of  goat’s  whey;  Amanda  took  the  salubrious 
draught  with  a smile,  and  instantly  starting  up,  was  dressed  in  a few 
minutes.  She  felt  more  composed  than  she  had  done  for  some  time 
past;  the  transition  from  a narrow  dark  street  to  a fine  open  country 


80 


CHILDREN  0¥  THE  ABBEY, 


wonld  have  excited  a lively  transport  in  her  mind,  but  for  the  idea 
of  her  father  still  remaining  in  the  gloomy  situation  she  had  quitted. 

On  going  out  she  found  the  family  all  busily  employed ; Edwin  and 
his  sons  were  mowing  in  a meadow  near  the  house ; the  nurse  was 
churning ; Ellen  washing  milk-pails  by  the  stream  in  the  valley ; and 
Betsey  turning  a cake  for  her  breakfast. 

The  tea-table  was  laid  by  a window,  through  which  a woodbine 
crept,  diffusing  a delightful  fragrance ; the  bees  feasted  on  its  sweet- 
ness, and  the  gaudy  butterflies  fluttered  around  it ; the  refulgent  sun 
gladdened  the  face  of  nature ; the  morning  breeze  tempered  its  heatv, 
and  bore  upon  its  dewy  wings  the  sweets  of  opening  flowers ; birds 
carolled  their  matins  almost  on  every  spray ; and  scattered  peasants, 
busied  in  their  various  labours,  enlivened  the  extensive  prospects. 

Amanda  was  delighted  with  all  she  saw,  and  wrote  to  her  father, 
that  his  presence  was  only  wanting  to  complete  her  pleasure.  The 
young  man  who  had  attended  her,  on  receiving  her  letter,  set  out  for 
the  village,  from  whence  he  was  to  return  in  a stage  coach  to  London. 

The  morning  was  passed  by  Amanda  in  arranging  her  little  affairs, 
walking  about  the  cottage,  and  conversing  with  the  nurse  relative  to 
past  times  and  present  avocations.  When  the  hour  for  dinner  came, 
by  her  desire  it  was  carried  out  into  the  recess  in  the  garden,  where 
the  balmy  air,  the  lovely  scene  which  surrounded  her,  rendered  it 
doubly  delicious. 

In  the  evening  she  asked  Ellen  to  take  a walk  with  her,  to  which 
she  joyfully  consented.  “And  pray.  Miss,”  said  Ellen,  after  she  had 
smartened  herself  with  a clean  white  apron,  her  Sunday  cap,  and  a 
hat  loaded  with  poppy-coloured  ribbons,  smiling  as  she  spoke,  at  the 
pretty  image  her  glass  reflected,  “where  shall  we  go  ?” 

“ To  the  church-yard,”  replied  Amanda.  “ Oh  Lord,  Miss,”  cried 
EUen,  “ won’t  that  be  rather  a dismal  place  to  go  to  ?”  “ Indulge  me 

my  dear  Ellen,”  said  Amanda,  “ in  shewing  me  the  way  thither : 
there  is  one  spot  in  it  my  heart  wants  to  visit.”  The  church-yard 
lay  at  the  entrance  of  the  little  village;  the  church  was  a small 
structure,  whose  gothic  appearance  proclaimed  its  ancient  date;  it 
was  rendered  more  venerable  by  the  lofty  elms  and  yews  which 
surrounded  it,  apparently  coeval  with  itself,  and  which  cast  dark 
shades  upon  the  spots  where  the  rude  “ forefathers  of  the  hamlet 
slept,”  which 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


87 


With  uncouth  rhymes,  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck’d, 

Implor’d  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 

And  it  was  a tribute  Amanda  paid,  as  she  proceeded  to  tJie  gravo 
of  Lady  Malvina,  which  Ellen  pointed  out:  it  was  overgroA'n  with 
grass,  and  the  flag  which  bore  her  name,  green  from  time  and  damp. 
Amanda  involuntarily  sunk  on  her  knees,  and  kissed  the  hallowed 
earth ; her  eyes  caught  the  melancholy  inscription. — “ Sweet  spirit,” 
she  said,  “ Heaven  now  rewards  your  sufferings.  Oh,  my  mother  I 
if  departed  spirits  are  ever  allowed  to  review  this  world,  with  love 
ineffable  you  may  now  be  regarding  your  child.  Oh ! if  she  is  doomed 
to  tread  as  thorny  a path  as  the  one  you  trod,  may  the  same  sweet- 
ness and  patience  that  distinguished  you,  support  her  through  it; 
with  the  same  pious  awe,  the  same  meek  submission,  may  she  bow  to 
the  designation  of  her  Creator. 

The  affecting  catastrophe  drew  tears  from  the  tender-hearted 
Ellen,  who  besought  lier  not  to  continue  longer  in  such  a dismal 
place.  Amanda  now  rose  weeping ; her  spirits  were  entirely  over- 
come: the  busy  objects  of  the  day  had  amused  her  mind,  and  pre- 
vented it  from  meditating  on  its  sorrows ; but  in  the  calm  solitude 
of  the  evening  they  gradually  revived  in  her  remembrance.  Her 
father’s  ill  health,  she  feared,  would  increase  for  want  of  her  tender 
attentions ; and  when  she  thought  of  his  distress,  his  confinement,  his 
dejection,  she  felt  an  agony  at  their  separation. 

Her  melancholy  was  noticed  at  the  cottage.  Ellen  informed  the 
nurse  of  the  dismal  walk  they  had  taken,  which  at  once  accounted 
for  it : and  the  good  woman  exerted  herself  to  enliven  her  dear  child ; 
but  Amanda,  though  she  faintly  smiled,  was  not  to  be  cheered,  and 
soon  retired  to  bed — ^pale,  languid,  and  unhappy. 

Eeturning  light,  in  some  degree,  dispelled  her  melancholy;  she 
felt,  however,  for  the  first  time,  that  her  hours  would  hang  heavy 
on  her  hands,  deprived  as  she  was  of  those  delightful  resources, 
which  had  hitherto  diversified  them.  To  pass  her  time  in  listless 
inaction,  or  idle  saunters  about  the  house,  was  insupportable ; and 
besides  she  found  her  presence  in  the  morning  was  a restraint  on  her 
humble  friends,  who  did  not  deem  it  good  manners  to  work  before 
her ; and  to  them,  who  like  bees  were  obliged  to  lay  up  their  wintry 
hoard  in  summer,  the  loss  of  time  was  irreparable. 

In  the  distraction  of  her  father’s  affaTs,  she  had  lost  her  book^ 


88 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


‘.mploiaents  for  drawing,  and  musical  instruments;  and  in  the  cottage 
si  e could  only  find  a bible,  family  prayer-book,  and  a torn  volume  of 
old  ballads. 

‘‘  Tear  heart,  now  I think  on’t,”  said  the  nurse,  “ you  may  go  to 
the  library  at  Tudor-Hall,  where  there  are  books  enough  to  keep  you 
a-^going,  if  you  lived  to  the  age  of  Methusalem  himself,  and  very  pretty 
reading  to  be  sure  amongst  them,  or  our  parson  Howell  would  not 
have  been  going  there  as  often  as  he  did,  to  study,  tiU  he  got  a 
library  of  his  own.  The  family  are  all  away,  and  as  the  door  is 
opened  every  fine  day  to  air  the  roon,  you  will  not  be  noticed  by 
nobody  going  into  it;  though  for  that  matter  poor  old  Mrs.  Alberg- 
willy  would  make  you  welcome  enough,  if  you  promised  to  take  none 
of  the  books  away  with  you.  But  as  I know  you  lo  be  a little  bash- 
ful or  so,  I will,  if  you  choose,  step  over  and  ask  her  leave  for  you  to 
go.” — “K  you  please,”  said  Amanda;  should  not  like  to  go 
without  it.” — ‘^WeU,  I shan’t  be  long,”  continued  the  nurse,  “and 
Ellen  shall  show  you  the  way  to-day;  it  will  be  a pretty  pit  of  a 
walk  for  you  to  take  every  morning.”  The  nurse  was  as  good  as 
her  word ; she  returned  soon,  with  Mrs.  Albergwilly’s  permission  for 
Amanda  to  read  in  the  library  whenever  she  pleased.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  she  immediately  proceeded  to  the  Hall,  whose  white 
turrets  were  seen  from  the  cottage : it  was  a large  and  antique  build- 
ing, embosomed  in  a grove,  the  library  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
entered  by  a spacious  folding  door.  As  soon  as  she  had  reached  it, 
Ellen  left  her,  and  returned  to  the  cottage ; and  Amanda  began  with 
pleasure  to  examihe  the  apartment,  whose  elegance  and  simplicity 
struck  her  with  immediate  admiration. 

On  one  side  was  a row  of  large  windows,  arched  quite  in  the 
Gothic  style;  opposite  to  them  were  corresponding  arches,  in  whose 
recesses  the  book  cases  were  placed:  round  these  arches  were  festoons 
of  laurel,  elegantly  executed  in  stucco  work,  and  above  them  medal- 
lions of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  poets : the  chimney  piece,  of  the 
finest  Italian  marble,  was  beautifully  inlaid  and  ornamented;  the 
paintings  on  the  ceiling  were  highly  finished,  and  of  the  allegorical 
kind;  and  it  was  difficult  to  determine,  whether  the  taste  that 
designed,  or  the  hand  that  executed  them,  merited  most  praise:  upon 
marble  pedestals  stood  a celestial  and  terrestrial  globe,  and  one  recess 
was  entirely  hung  with  maps.  It  was  a room,  from  its  situation  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


89 


appearance,  peculiarly  adapted  for  study  and  contemplation;  au 
around  was  solitude  and  silence,  save  the  soft  rustling  of  the  trees, 
whose  dark  foliage  cast  a solemn  shade  upon  the  windows.  Opposite 
the  entrance  was  another  folding  door,  which  being  a little  opened, 
Amanda  could  not  resist  the  desire  she  felt,  of  seeing  what  was 
beyond  it : she  entered  a large  vaulted  apartment,  whose  airy  light- 
ness formed  a pleasing  contrast  '^ith  the  gloomy  one  she  had  left : 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  fitted  up,  and  the  musical  instruments 
declared  this  to  he  a music-room.  It  was  hung  with  pale  green 
damask,  spotted  with  silver  and  bordered  with  festoons  of  roses, 
intermingled  with  light  silver  sprays ; the  seats  corresponding  to  the 
hangings;  the  tables  were  of  fine  inlaid  wood;  and  superb  lustres 
were  supended  fXm  the  ceiling,  which  represented,  in  a masterly 
style,  scenes  from  some  of  the  pastoral  poets ; the  orchestra,  about 
the  centre  of  the  room,  was  enclosed  with  a light  balustrading  of 
white  marble  elevated  by  a few  steps. 

The  windows  of  this  room  commanding  a pleasant  prospect  of  a 
deep  romantic  dale ; the  hills,  through  which  it  wound,  displaying  a 
beautiful  diversity  of  woody  scenery,  interspered  with  green  pastures 
and  barren  points  of  rocks : a fine  fall  of  water  fell  from  one  of  the 
highest  of  the  hills,  which,  broken  by  intervening  roots  and  branches 
of  trees,  run  a hundred  different  ways,  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams  as 
they  emerged  from  the  shade. 

Amanda  stood  long  at  the  window  enjoying  this  delightful  prospect, 
and  admiring  the  taste  which  had  chosen  this  room  for  amusement ; 
thus  at  once  gratifying  the  eye  and  ear.  On  looking  over  the  instru- 
ments, she  saw  a piano  forte  unlocked;  she  gently  raised  the  lid  and 
touching  the  keys,  found  them  in  tolerable  order.  Amanda  adored 
music , her  genius  for  it  was  great,  and  had  received  every  advan- 
tage her  father  could  possibly  give  it : in  cultivating  it  he  had  laid  up 
a fund  of  delight  for  himself,  for  ‘‘his  soul  was  a stream,  that  flowed 
at  pleasant  sounds.” 

Amanda  could  not  resist  the  present  opportunity  of  gratifying  her 
favourite  inclination.  “ Harmony  and  I,”  cried  she,  “have  long  been 
strangers  to  each  other.”  She  sat  down  and  played  a tender  little 
air : those  her  father  loved  recurred  to  recollection,  and  she  played  a 
few  of  them  with  even  more  than  usual  elegance.  “ Ah  dear  and 
valued  object,”  she  mournfully  sighed,  “ why  are  you  not  here  to 


40 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


share  my  pleasure?”  She  wiped  away  a starting  tear  of  tender 
remennbrance,  and  began  a simple  air. 

Ah,  gentle  hope  I shall  I no  more 
Thy  cheerful  influence  share  ? 

Oh,  must  1 still  thy  loss  deplore. 

And  be  the  slave  of  care  1 
The  gloom  which  now  obscures  my  day 
At  thy  approach  would  fly, 

And  glowing  fancy  should  display 
A bright  unclouded  sky. 

Night’s  dreary  shadows  fleet  away. 

Before  the  orient  beam ; 

So  sorrow  melts  before  thy  sway. 

Thou  nymph  of  cheerful  mien. 

Ah,  seek  again  my  lonely  breast, 

Dislodge  each  painful  fear  I 
Be  once  again  my  heavenly  guest, 

And  stay  each  falling  tear, 

Amanda  saw  a number  of  music  books  lying  about ; sbe  examined 
a few,  and  found  they  contained  compositions  of  some  of  the  most 
eminent  masters.  They  tempted  her  to  continue  a little  longer  at  the 
instrument ; when  she  rose  from  it,  she  returned  to  the  hbrary,  and 
began  looking  over  the  books,  which  she  found  a collection  of  the 
best  which  past  or  present  times  had  produced.  She  soon  selected 
one  for  her  perusal,  and  seated  herself  in  the  recess  of  a window, 
that  she  might  enjoy  the  cool  breeze  which  sighed  amongst  the  trees. 
Here,  delighted  with  her  employment,  she  forgot  the  progress  of 
time,  nor  thought  of  moving  till  Ellen  appeared,  with  a request  from 
the  nurse  for  her  immediate  return,  as  her  dinner  was  ready,  and  she 
was  uneasy  at  her  fasting  so  long.  Amanda  did  not  hesitate  to  com- 
ply with  the  request ; but  she  resolved  henceforth  to  be  a constant 
visitor  at  the  Hall,  which  contained  such  pleasing  sources  of  amuse- 
ment ; she  also  settled  in  her  own  mind,  often  to  ramble  amidst  its 
shades,  which  were  perfectly  adapted  to  her  taste.  These  resolutions 
she  put  in  practice;  and  a week  passed  in  this  manner,  during  which 
she  heard  from  her  father,  who  informed  her,  that  suspecting  the 
woman  with  whom  he  lodged  to  be  in  Colonel  Belgrave’s  interest,  be 
proposed  changing  his  abode ; he  desired  her,  therefore,  not  to  write 
till  she  heard  from  him  again,  and  added.  Lord  Cherbury  waa  daily 
expected. 


OUILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


41 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mine  eyes  were  half  closed  h:  sleep.  Soft  music  came  to  mine  ear;  it  was  like  tho 
rising  breese  that  whirli,  at  first,  the  thistle’s  beard;  that  flies,  dark,  shadowy,  over  th« 
grass. 

^ OSSIAM. 

Amanda  went  every  morning  to  the  Hall,  where  she  alternately 
played  and  read ; in  the  evening  she  again  returned  to  it ; but  instead 
of  staying  in  the  library,  generally  took  a book  from  thence,  and  read 
at  the  foot  of  some  old  moss-covered  tree,  delighted  to  hear  its 
branches  gently  rustling  overhead,  and  myriads  of  summer  flies 
buzzing  in  the  sunny  ray,  from  which  she  was  sheltered.  When  she 
could  no  longer  see  to  read,  she  deposited  her  book  in  the  place  she 
had  taken  it  from,  and  rambled  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  grove ; 
this  was  the  time  she  loved  to  saunter  carelessly  along,  while  all  the 
jarring  passions  that  obtruding  care  excited,  were  hushed  to  peace 
by  the  solemnity  and  silence  of  the  hour,  and  the  soul  felt  at  once 
composed  and  elevated ; this  was  the  time  she  loved  to  think  on  days 
departed,  and  sketch  those  scenes  of  felicity,  which,  she  trusted,  the 
days  to  come  would  realize. — Sometimes  she  gave  way  to  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  a young  and  romantic  fancy,  and  pictured  to  herself 
the  time,  when  the  shades  she  wandered  beneath,  were 

——the  haunts  of  meditation, 

The  scenes,  where  ancient  bards  th’  inspiring  breath 
Extatic  felt,  and  from  this  world  retired. 

Conversed  with  angels  and  immortal  forms, 

On  gracious  errands  bent ; to  save  the  fall 
Of  virtue  struggling  on  the  brink  of  vice. 

Thomson. 

Her  health  gradually  grew  better  as  the  tranquillity  of  her  mind 
increased;  a faint  blush  again  began  to  tinge  her  cheek,  and  her 
lovely  eyes  beamed  a placid  lustre,  through  their  long  silken  lashes. 

She  returned  one  evening  from  her  usual  ramble  with  one  of  those 
unaccountable  depressions  on  her  spirits,  to  which,  to  a greater  or 
lesser  degree,  almost  every  one  is  subject.  When  she  retired  to  bed, 
her  sleeping  thoughts  todk  the  tincture  of  her  waking  ones,  and 
images  of  the  most  affecting  nature  arose  in  her  mind ; she  went 


42 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF, 


through  the  whole  story  of  her  mother’s  sufferings,  and  suddenly 
dreamt  she  beheld  her  expiring  under  the  greatest  torture ; and  that 
while  she  wept  her  fate,  the  clouds  opened,  and  discovered  her 
adorned  with  seraphic  beauty,  bending  with  a benignant  look 
towards  her  child,  as  if  to  assure  her  of  her  present  happiness. 
From  this  dream  Amanda  was  roused,  by  the  softest,  sweetest  strains 
of  music  she  had  ever  heard;  she  started  with  amazement;  she 
opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  a light  around  her,  far  exceeding  that  of 
twilight.  Her  dream  had  made  a deep  impression  on  her,  and  a 
solemn  awe  diffused  itseff  over  her  mind ; she  trembled  universally ; 
but  soon  did  the  emotion  of  awe  give  way  to  that  of  surprise,  when 
she  heard  on  the  outside  of  the  window  the  following  lines  from 
Cowley,  sung  in  a manly  and  exquisitely  melodious  voice,  the  musio 
which  woke  her  being  only  a symphony  to  them. 


Awake,  awake,  my  lyr*, 

And  tell  thy  silent  master’s  humble  tale. 

In  sounds  they  may  prevail, 

Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire, 

Though  so  exalted  she. 

And  I so  lowly  be. 

Tell  her  such  different  notes  make  all  thy  harmony. 

Hark  how  the  strings  awake. 

And  though  the  moving  hand  approach  not  near. 
Themselves  with  awful  fear, 

A kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 

Now  all  thy  forces  try. 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply. 

Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquest  of  her  eye. 

Weak  lyre,  thy  virtue  sure 
Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 
To  cure,  hut  not  to  wound. 

And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak  too,  wilt  thou  prove, 

My  passion  to  remove. 

Physic  to  other  ills,  thou’rt  nourishment  to  1ot«, 

Sleep,  sleep  again  my  lyre. 

For  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble  tale, 

In  sounds  that  will  prevail, 

Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire. 

AU  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by. 

Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie. 

Bleep,  sleep  again,  my  lyre,  and  let  thy  master  die. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


43 


Ere  the  voice  ceased,  Amanda  had  quite  shaken  off  the  effects  of 
her  dream;  and,  when  all  again  was  silent,  she  drew  back  the 
curtain,  and  saw  it  was  the  moon,  then  at  full,  which,  beaming 
through  the  calico  window  curtains,  cast  such  a light  around  her. 
The  remainder  of  the  night  was  passed  in  ruminating  on  this  strange 
incident ; it  was  evident  the  serenade  was  addressed  to  her ; but  she 
had  not  seen  any  one  since  her  arrival  in  the  neighbourhood,  from 
whom  she  could  have  expected  such  a compliment,  or,  indeed, 
believed  capable  of  paying  it ; that  the  person  who  paid  it  was  one 
of  no  mean  accomplishments,  from  his  performance  she  could  not 
doubt.  She  resolved  to  conceal  the  incident,  but  to  make  such 
inquiries  the  next  morning  as  might  possibly  lead  to  a discovery. 
From  the  answer  those  inquiries  received,  the  clergyman  was  the 
only  person  whom,  with  any  degree  of  probability,  she  could  fix  on ; 
she  had  never  seen  him,  and  was  at  a loss  to  conceive  how  he  knew 
anything  of  her,  till  it  occurred  he  might  have  seen  her  going  to 
Tudor  Hall,  or  rambling  about  it. 

From  the  moment  this  idea  arose,  Amanda  deemed  it  imprudent  to 
go  to  the  Hall ; yet  so  great  was  the  pleasure  she  experienced  there, 
she  could  not  think  of  relinquishing  it  without  the  greatest  reluc- 
tance. She  at  last  considered,  if  she  had  a companion,  it  would 
remove  any  appearance  of  impropriety : Ellen  was  generally  employed 
at  knitting;  Amanda  therefore  saw  that  going  to  the  Hall  could 
not  interfere  with  her  employment,  and  accordingly  asked  her 
attendance  thither,  which  the  other  joyfully  agreed  to. — ‘‘  While  you 
look  over  the  books,”* said  Ellen,  as  they  entered  the  library,  “I  wiU 
just  step  away  about  a little  business.”  “ I beg  you  may  not  be  long 
absent,”  cried  Amanda.  Ellen  assured  her  she  would  not,  and  flew 
off  directly.  She  had,  in  truth,  seen  in  an  enclosure  near  the  Hall, 
Tim  Chip,  the  carpenter,  at  work,  who  was  the  rural  Adonis  of  these 
shades ; he  had  long  selected  Ellen  for  the  fair  nymph  of  his  affec- 
tion; which  distinction  excited  not  a little  jealousy  among  the 
village  girls,  and  considerably  increased  the  vanity  of  Ellen,  who 
triumphed  in  a conquest  that  at  once  gratified  her  love,  and  exalted 
her  above  her  companions. 

Amanda  entered  the  music  room;  the  melodious  strains  she  had 
heard  the  preceding  night  dwelt  upon  her  memory,  and  she  sat 
down  to  the  piano,  and  attempted  them;  her  ear  soon  informed  her 


44  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 

tliat  the  attempt  was  successful ; and  her  voiee  (as  the  words  were 
familiar  iO  her)  then  accompanied  the  instrument.  “Heavenly 
sounds !”  exclaimed  some  one  behind  her,  as  she  concluded  singing. 
Amanda  started  in  terror  and  confusion  from  the  chair,  and  beheld  a 
tall  and  elegant  young  man  standing  by  it.  “Good  heaven!”  cried 
she,  blushing,  and  hastily  moving  to  the  door,  scarcely  knowing  what 
she  eiid,  “where  can  Ellen  be?’  “And  do  you  think,”  said  the 
stranger,  springing  forward,  and  intercepting  her  passage,  “I  shall  let 
you  escape  in  this  manner  ? iTo,  really,  my  charming  girl,  I should 
be  the  most  insensible  of  beings,  if  I did  not  avail  myself  of  the 
happy  opportunity  chance  afforded,  of  entreating  leave  to  be  intro- 
duced to  you.”  As  he  spoke,  he  gently  seized  her  hand,  and  carried 
it  to  his  lips.  “ Be  assured  sir,”  said  Amanda,  “ the  chance  as  you 
call  it,  which  brought  us  together,  is  to  me  most  unpleasant,  as  I fear 
it  has  exposed  me  to  greater  freedom  than  I have  been  accustomed 
to.” 

“ And  is  it  possible,”  said  he,  “ you  really  feel  an  emotion  of  anger  ? 
Well,  I will  relinquish  my  lovely  captive,  if  she  condescendingly  pro- 
mises to  continue  here  a few  minutes  longer,  and  grants  me  permis- 
sion to  attend  her  home.” 

“ I insist  on  being  immediately  released,”  exclaimed  Amanda.  “ I 
obey,”  cried  he,  softly  pressing  her  hand,  and  then  resigning  it : “ you 
are  free : would  to  heaven  I could  say  the  same.” 

Amanda  hurried  to  the  grove;  but  in  her  confusion  took  a wrong 
path,  and  vainly  cast  her  eyes  around  in  search  of  EUen.  The  stran- 
ger followed,  and  his  eyes  wandered  with  hers  in  every  direction  they 
took.  “And  why,”  cried  he,  “so  unpropitious  to  my  wish  of  intro- 
duction? a wish,  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  from  the  moment  you 
were  seen.”  Amanda  made  no  reply,  but  still  hurried  on ; and  her 
fatigue  and  agitation  were  soon  too  much  for  her  present  weak  state 
of  health;  and,  quite  overpowered,  she  was  at  length  compelled  to 
stop,  and  lean  against  a tree  for  support.  Exercise  had  diffused  its 
softest  bloom  over  her  cheek;  her  hair  fluttered  in  the  breeze  that 
played  around  her ; and  her  eyes,  with  the  beautiful  embarrassment 
of  modesty,  were  bent  to  the  ground,  to  avoid  the  stranger’s  ardent 
gaze ; he  watched  lior  with  looks  of  the  most  impassionate  admira- 
tion, and  softly  exclaimed,  as  if  the  involuntary  exclamation  of  ra^M 
tnre,  “ Good  Heavens,  what  an  angel.” 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ASSET 


45 


“ Fatigue  has  made  you  ill,’’  he  said,  “ and  ’tis  your  haste  to  avoid 
me  has  occasioned  this  disorder.  Could  you  look  into  my  heart,  you 
would  then  find  there  was  no  reason  to  fiy  from  me ; the  emotions 
that  lovely  face  excites  in  a soul  of  sensibility,  could  never  be  inimi- 
ca.  to  your  safety.” 

At  this  moment  Amanda  perceived  Ellen  leaping  over  a stile ; she 
had  at  last  left  Mr.  Chip,  after  promising  to  meet  him  in  the  evening 
at  the  cottage,  where  the  blind  harper  was  to  attend  (o  give  them  a 
dance.  She  ran  forward,  but  on  seeing  the  stranger  started  back  in 
the  utmost  amazement.  “ Bless  me,”  said  Amanda,  “ I thought  you 
would  never  come.” 

‘‘You  go  then,”  said  the  stranger,  “and  give  me  no  hope  of  a 
second  interview.  Oh  say,”  taking  her  hand,  “ will  you  not  allow 
me  to  wait  upon  you  ?”  “ It  is  utterly  impossible,”  replied  Amanda, 

“ and  I shall  be  quite  distressed,  if  longer  detained.” 

“ See  then,”  said  he,  opening  a gate  which  led  from  the  grove  into 
the  road,  “how  like  a courteous  knight  I release  you  from  painful  cap- 
tivity. But  think  not,  thou  beautiful  though  cruel  fair  one,”  he  con- 
tinued gaily,  “ I shall  resign  my  hopes  of  yet  conquering  thy  obdu- 
racy.” 

“ Oh  Lord !”  cried  Ellen,  as  they  quitted  the  grove,  “ how  did  you 
meet  Lord  Mortimer?”  “Lord  Mortimer?”  repeated  Amanda. 
“ Yes,  himself,  indeed,”  said  EUen,  “ and  I think  in  all  my  porn  days 
I was  never  more  surprised,  than  when  I saw  him  with  you,  looking 
so  soft  and  so  sweet  upon  you ; to  be  sure  he  is  a beautiful  man ; and 
besides  that,  the  young  lort  of  Tudor  Hall.”  Amanda’s  spirits  were 
greatly  fiurried,  when  she  heard  he  was  the  master  of  the  mansion, 
where  he  had  found  her  seated  with  as  much  composure  as  if  pos- 
sessor of  it. 

As  they  were  entering  the  cottage,  Ellen,  twitching  Amanda’s 
sleeve  cried  “ Look,  look.”  Amanda,  hastily  turning  round,  perceived 
Lord  Mortimer,  who  had  slowly  followed  them  half  way  down  the 
lane ; on  being  observed,  he  smiled,  and,  kissing  his  hand,  retired. 

Nurse  was  quite  delighted  at  her  child  being  seen  by  Lord  Morti- 
mer (which  Ellen  informed  her  of:)  her  beauty,  she  was  convinced, 
had  excited  his  warmest  admiration ; and  admiration  might  lead  (she 
did  not  doubt)  to  something  more  important.  Amanda’s  heart  flut- 
tered with  an  agreeable  sensation,  as  Ellen  described  to  her  mother 


46 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


the  tender  looks  with  which  Lord  Mortimer  regarded  her.  She  was 
at  first  inclined  to  believe  that  in  his  lordship  she  had  found  the 
person,  whose  melody  so  agreeably  disturbed  her  slumbers;  but  a 
minute’s  reflection  convinced  her  this  belief  must  be  erroneous:  it 
was  evident  (for  she  would  have  heard  it)  that  Lord  Mortimer  had 
only  arrived  that  day  at  Tudor  Hall ; and  even  had  he  seen  her  before, 
upon  consideration  she  thought  it  improbable  that  he  should  have 
taken  the  trouble  of  coming  in  such  a manner  to  a person  in  a station, 
to  all  appearance,  so  infinitely  beneath  his  own.  Yes,  it  was  plain, 
chance  alone  had  led  him  to  the  apartment  where  she  sat ; and  the 
common-place  gallantry  fashionable  men  are  accustomed  to,  had 
dictated  the  language  he  addressed  to  her.  She  half  sighed,  as  she 
settled  the  matter  thus  in  her  mind,  and  again  fixed  on  the  curate  as 
the  serenader.  Well,  she  was  determined,  if  ever  he  came  in  her 
way,  and  dropped  a hint  of  an  attachment,  she  would  immediately 
crush  any  hopes  he  might  have  the  va^fity  to  entertain. 


OHAPTEK  Y. 

The  blossoms  op’ning  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  Heav’n  refin’d, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display, 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

Goldsmith. 

After  tea  Amanda  asked  little  Betsey  to  accompany  her  in  a waJk , 
for  Ellen  (dressed  in  all  her  rural  finery)  had  gone  early  in  the 
evening  to  the  dance.  But  Amanda  did  not  begin  her  walk  with  her 
usual  alacrity : her  bonnet  was  so  heavy,  and  then  it  made  her  look 
so  ill,  that  she  could  not  go  out  till  she  had  made  some  alterations  in 
it ; still  it  would  not  do ; a hat  was  tried  on ; she  liked  it  better,  and 
at  last  set  out;  but  not  as  usual  did  she  pause,  whenever  a new  or 
lovely  feature  in  the  landscape  struck  her  view,  to  express  her  admira- 
tion : she  was  often,  indeed,  so  absorbed  in  thought  as  to  start  when 
Betsey  addressed  her,  which  was  often  the  case;  for  little  Betsey 
delighted  to  have  Miss  Amanda  trace  figures  for  her  in  the  clofids, 
and  assist  her  in  gathering  wild  flowers.  Scarcely  knowing  which 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  47 

W'ay  they  went,  Amanda  rambled  to  the  village ; and  feeling  berseif 
fatigued,  turned  into  tbe  cburcb-yard  to  rest  upon  one  of  tbe  raised 
flags. 

Tbe  graves  were  ornamented  with  garlands  of  cut  paper,  inter- 
woven witb  flowers ; tributes  of  love  from  tbe  village  maids  to  the 
memory  of  tbeir  departed  friends. 

As  Amanda  rested  berseif,  sbe  twined  a garland  of  tbe  wild  flowers 
ebe  bad  gathered  witb  Betsey,  and  bung  it  over  the  grave  of  Lady 
Malvina ; her  fine  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  as  if  invoking  at  tbe  moment 
tbe  spirit  of  her  mother  to  regard  tbe  vernal  offering  of  her  cbiM ; 
while  her  white  bands  were  folded  on  her  heart,  and  sbe  softly 
exclaimed,  “Alas!  is  this  tbe  only  tribute  left  for  me  to  pay!” 

A low  murmur,  as  if  from  voices  near,  startled  her  at  tbe  instant ; 
sbe  turned  with  quickness,  and  saw  Lord  Mortimer,  witb  a you'ig 
clergyman,  half  bid  by  some  trees,  attentively  observing  her.  Blush- 
ing and  confused,  she  drew  her  hat  over  her  face,  and,  catcbirg 
Betsey’s  band,  hastened  to  the  cottage. 

Lord  Mortimer  bad  wandered  about  tbe  skirts  of  tbe  cottage,  in 
hopes  of  meeting  her  in  the  evening:  on  seeing  the  direction  sbn 
had  taken  from  it,  be  followed  her  ; and  just  as  sbe  entered  the 
cburcb-yard,  unexpectedly  met  the  curate.  His  company,  at  a 
moment  so  propitious  for  joining  Amanda,  be  could  well  have  dis- 
pensed with : for  be  was  more  anxious  than  be  chose  to  acknowledge 
to  himself  to  become  acquainted  with  her. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  in  tbe  glowing  prime  of  life : bis  person 
was  strikingly  elegant,  and  bis  manners  insinuatingly  pleasing; 
seducing  sweetness  dwelt  in  his  smile,  and,  as  he  pleased,  bis  expres- 
sive eyes  coifld  sparkle  witb  intelligence,  or  beam  witb  sensibility, 
and  to  the  eloquence  of  bis  language,  the  harmony  of  bis  voice 
imparted  a charm,  that  seldom  failed  of  being  irresistible ; bis  soul 
was  naturally  the  seat  of  every  virtue;  but  an  eleV'Uted  rank,  and 
splendid  fortune  bad  placed  him  in  a situation  somewhat  inimical  to 
tbeir  interests,  for  he  bad  not  always  strength  to  resist  tbe  strong 
temptations  which  surrounded  him ; but  though  be  sometimes  wan- 
dered from  tbe  boundaries  of  virtue,  be  bad  never  yet  entered  upon 
tbe  confines  of  vice,  never  really  injured  innocence,  or  done  a deed 
which  would  wound  tbe  bosom  of  a friend ; his  heart  was  alive  to 
every  noble  nropeiisity  'Ox' nature ; compassion  was  one  of  its  strongest 


48 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBET. 


feelings^  and  never  did  his  l.and  refuse  obedience  to  the  generous 
impulse.  Among  the  various  accomplishments  1:  e possessed,  was  an 
exquisite  taste  for  music,  which  with  every  other  talent,  had  been 
cultivated  to  the  highest  degree  of  possible  perfection ; hk  spending 
many  years  abroad,  had  given  him  every  requisite  advantage  for 
improving  it.  The  soft,  melodious  voice  of  Amanda,  would,  of  itself, 
almost  have  made  a conquest  of  his  heart ; but,  aided  by  the  charms 
of  her  face  and  person,  was  altogether  irresistible. 

He  had  come  into  Wales,  on  purpose  to  pay  a visit  to  an  old 
friend  in  the  Isle  of  Anglesea:  he  did  not  mean  to  stop  at  Tudor- 
HaU;  but  within  a few  miles  of  it,  the  phaeton  in  which  he  travelled 
(from  the  fineness  of  the  weather)  was  overturned,  and  he  severely 
hurt.  He  procured  a hired  carriage,  and  proceeded  to  the  Hall,  to 
put  himself  into  the  hands  of  the  good  old  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Aberg- 
willy;  who,  possessing  as  great  a stock  of  medical  knowledge  as 
Lady  Bountiful  herself,  he  believed  would  cure  his  bruises  with 
as  much,  or  rather  more  expedition,  than  any  country  surgeon 
whatever.  He  gave  strict  orders,  that  his  being  at  the  Hall  should 
not  be  mentioned,  as  he  did  not  choose  the  few  days,  he  hoped  and 
believed  he  should  continue  there,  to  be  disturbed  by  visits,  which 
he  knew  would  be  paid,  if  an  intimation  of  his  being  there  was 
received.  From  an  apartment  adjoining  the  music-room,  he  had  dis- 
covered Amanda ; though  scarcely  able  to  move,  at  the  first  sound  of 
her  voice  he  stole  to  the  door,  which,  being  a little  open,  gave  him 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  her  perfectly ; and  nothing  but  his  situation, 
prevented  his  immediately  appearing  before  her,  and  expressing  the 
admiration  she  had  inspired  him  with.  As  soon  as  she  departed,  he 
sent  for  the  housekeeper,  to  inquire  who  the  beautiful  stranger  was. 
Mrs.  Abergwilly  only  knew  she  was  a young  lady  lately  come  from 
London  to  lodge  at  David  Edwin’s  cottage,  whose  wife  had  entreated 
permission  for  her  to  read  in  the  library,  which,  she  added,  she  had 
given,  seeing  that  his  lordship  read  in  the  dressing-room ; but  if  he 
pleased,  she  would  send  Miss  Dunford  word  not  to  come  again.  “ By 
no  means,”  his  lordship  said.  Amanda,  therefore,  continued  her 
visits  as  usual,  Kttle  thinking  with  what  critical  regard,  and  fond 
admiration  she  was  observed.  Lord  Mortimer  daily  grew  better; 
but  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  come  icto  Wales,  seemed  utterly 
forgotten;  he  had  a tincture  of  romance  in  his  disposition,  ana 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEf 


49 


availed  himself  of  his  recovery  to  gratify  it,  by  taking  a Into  and 
serenading  his  lovely  cottage  girl.  He  could  no  longer  restrain  his 
impatience  to  be  l^ovrn  to  her ; and  the  next  day^  stealing  from  his 
retirement,  surprised  her,  as  already  related. 

As  he  could  not,  without  an  utter  violation  of  good  manners,  shake 
off  Howell,  he  contented  himself  with  following  Amanda  into  the 
church-yard,  where,  shaded  by  the  trees,  he  and  his  companion  stood 
watching  her  unnoticed,  till  an  involuntary  exclamation  of  rapture 
from  his  lordship  discovered  their  situation.  When  she  departed,  he 
read  the  inscription  on  the  tomb-stone ; but,  from  the  difference  of 
names,  this  gave  no  insight  into  any  connexion  between  her  and  the 
person  it  mentioned : Howell  could  give  no  information  of  either : ho 
was  but  a young  man,  lately  appointed  to  the  parsonage,  and  had 
never  seen  Amanda  till  that  evening. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  solicitous,  even  to  a degree  of  anxiety,  to  leam 
the  real  situation  of  Amanda : as  Howell,  in  his  pastoral  function, 
had  free  access  to  the  houses  of  his  parishioners,  it  occurred  to  him| 
that  he  would  be  an  excellent  person  to  discover  it ; he  therefore,  as 
if  from  curiosity  alone,  expressed  his  wish  of  knowing  who  she  was, 
and  requested  Howell,  if  convenient,  to  follow  her  directly  to  Edwin’s 
cottage,  (where,  he  said,  by  chance  he  heard  she  lodged,)  and  endeav- 
our to  find  out  from  the  good  people  every  thing  about  her.  This 
request  Howell  readily  complied  with;  the  face,  the  figure,  the 
melancholy,  and  above  all  the  employment  of  Amanda,  had  interested 
his  sensibility,  and  excited  his  curiosity. 

He  arrived  soon  after  her  at  the  cottage,  and  found  her  laughing  at 
her  nurse,  who  was  telling  her,  she  was  certain  she  should  see  her  a 
great  laty.  Amanda  rose  to  retire  at  his  entrance ; but  he,  perceiving 
her  intention,  declared,  if  he  disturbed  her,  he  would  immediately 
depart;  she  accordingly  reseated  herself,  secretly  pleased  at  doing 
BO,  as  she  thought,  either  from  some  look  or  word  of  the  curate’s  she 
might  discover  if  he  really  was  the  person  who  had  serenaded  her ; 
from  this  idea  she  shewed  no  averseness  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  him. 

The  whole  family,  nurse  excepted,  had  followed  Ellen  to  the  dance ; 
and  that  good  womam  thought  she  could  do  no  less  for  the  honour  of 
Howell’s  visit,  than  prepare  a little  comfortable  supper  for  him.  The 
benevolence  of  his  disposition,  and  innocent  gaiety  of  his  temj)er, 

8 


50  0 F I L D n E N O F T n E A B B E T.  ^ 

ha<l  ren<iored  him  a great  favDurite  amongst  his  rustic  neighbours, 
whom  he, frequently  amused  Aiith  simple  ballads  and  pleasant  tales. 
Amanda  and  he  were  left  tete-^-t^te,  while  the  n^rse  was  busied  in 
preparing  her  entertainment;  and  she  was  soon  as  much  pleased  with 
the  elegance  and  simplicity  of  his  manners,  as  he  was  with  the 
innocence  aiid  sweetness  of  hers.  The  objects  about  them  naturally 
led  to  rural  bubjc**,ts,  and  from  them  to  what  might  almost  be  termed 
a dissertation  on  poetry:  this  was  a theme  peculiarly  agreeable  to 
Howell,  who  wooe»l  the  pensive  muse  beneath  the  sylvan  shade ; nor 
was  it  less  so  to  Amanda:  she  was  a zealous  worshipper  of  the  Muses, 
though  diffidence  made  her  conceal  her  invocations  to  them.  She 
was  led  to  point  out  the  beauties  of  her  favourite  authors ; and  the 
soft  sensibility  of  her  voice  raised  a kind  of  tender  enthusiasm  in 
Howell’s  soul ; he  gazed  and  listened,  as  if  his  eye  could  never  be 
satisfied  with  seeing,  or  his  ear  with  hearing.  At  his  particular 
request,  Amanda  recited  the  pathetic  description  of  the  curate  and  his 
lovely  daughter,  from  the  Deserted  Village ; a tear  stole  down  her 
cheek  as  she  proceeded.  Howell  softly  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  and 
exclaimed,  ‘‘Good  Heavens,  what  an  angel!” 

“ Come,  come,”  said  Amanda,  smiling  at  the  energy  with  which  he 
spoke,  “ you  at  least  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  flattery.” 

“ riattery !”  repeated  he  emphatically,  “ Oh  heavens,  did  you  but 
know  my  sincerit}" ” 

“Well,  well,”  cried  she,  wishing  to  change  the  subject,  “utter  no 
expression  in  future,  which  shall  make  me  doubt  it.” 

“To  flatter  you,”  said  he,  “would  be  impossible;  since  the  highest 
eulogium  must  be  inadequate  to  your  merits.” 

“Again!”  said  Amanda. 

“Believe  me,”  he  replied,  “flattery  is  a meanness  I abhor;  th^ 
expressions  you  denominate  as  such,  proceed  from  emotions  I should 
contemn  myself  for  want  of  sensibility  if  I did  not  experience ” 

The  nurse’s  duck  and  green  peas  were  now  set  upon  the  table,  bat 
in  vuiu  did  she  press  Howell  to  eat ; his  eyes  were  too  well  feasted  to 
allow  him  to  attend  to  his  palate.  Finding  her  entreaties  ineffectual 
in  one  respect,  she  tried  them  in  another,  and  begged  he  would  sing 
a favourite  old  ballad;  this  he  at  first  hesitated  to  do,  till  Amanda 
(from  a secret  motive  of  her  own)  joined  in  the  entreaty;  and  tha 
moment  she  heard  his  voice,  she  was  convinced  ho  was  not  the  per- 


children  op  the  abbey 


51 


Bon  wlx)  Lad  been  at  the  outside  of  the  window.  After  his  complai- 
sance to  her,  she  could  not  refuse  him  one  song:  the  melodious  sounds 
sunk  into  his  heart ; he  seemed  fascinated  to  the  spot,  nor  thought  of 
moving,  till  the  nurse  gave  him  a hint  for  that  purpose,  being  afraid 
of  Amanda’s  sitting  up  too  late. 

He  siglied  as  he  entered  his  humble  dwelling;  it  was  perhaps  the 
first  sigh  he  had  ever  heaved  for  the  narrowness  of  his  fortune. 
“ Yet,”  cried  he,  casting  his  eyes  around,  “ in  this  abode,  low  and 
humble  as  it  is,  a soul  like  Amanda’s  might  enjoy  felicity.” 

The  purpose  for  which  Lord  Mortimer  sent  him  to  the  cottage,  and 
Lord  Mortimer  himself,  were  forgotten.  His  lordship  had  engaged 
Howell  to  sup  with  him  after  the  performance  of  his  embassy,  and 
impatiently  waited  his  arrival : he  felt  displeased,  as  the  hours  wore 
away  without  bringing  him ; and,  unable  at  last  to  restrain  the  impet- 
uosity of  his  feelings,  proceeded  to  the  parsonage,  which  he  entered 
a few  minutes  after  Howell.  He  asked,  with  no  great  complacency, 
the  reason  he  had  not  fulfilled  his  engagement.  Absorbed  in  one  idea, 
Howell  felt  confused,  agitated,  and  unable  to  frame  any  excuse ; h^ 
therefore  simply  said,  what  in  reality  was  true,  that  he  had  utterly 
forgotten  it. 

“I  suppose  then,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a ruffled  voicO; 
“ you  have  been  very  agreeably  entertained.” 

Delightfully,”  said  Howell. 

Lord  Mortimer  grew  more  displeased;  but  his  anger  was  now 
levelled  against  himself  as  well  as  Howell.  He  repented  and  regret- 
ted the  folly  which  had  thrown  Howell  in  the  way  of  such  tempta- 
tion, and  had  perhaps  raised  a rival  to  himself. 

“Well,”  cried  he,  after  a few  hasty  paces  about  the  room,  “and 
pray,  what  do  you  know  about  Miss  Dunford?” 

“About  her?”  repeated  Howell,  as  if  starting  from  a reverie — 
“ why  nothing.” 

“Nothing!”  re-echoed  his  lordship. 

“ No,”  replied  Howell,  “ except  that  she  is  an  angel.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  thoroughly  convinced  all  was  over  with 
the  poor  parson ; and  resolved,  in  consequence  of  this  conviction,  to 
lose  no  time  himself.  He  could  not  depart,  without  inquiring  how 
the  evening  had  been  spent,  and  envied  Howell  the  happy  minutes  ho 
had  so  eloquently  described. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET 


&3 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Hither  turn 

Thy  graceful  footsteps;  hither,  gentle  maid, 

Incline  thy  polish’d  forehead.  Let  thy  eyes 
Effuse  the  mildness  3f  their  azure  dawn ; 

And  may  the  fanning  breezes  waft  aside 
Thy  radiant  locks,  disclosing,  as  it  bends 
With  airy  softness  from  the  marble  ijeck, 

The  cheek  fair  blooming,  and  the  rosy  lip, 

Where  winning  smiles  and  pleasures  sweet  arrive, 

With  sanctity  and  wisdom,  tempering  blend 
Their  soft  allurement. 

Akknsidb. 

While  Amanda  was  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Betsey  broiiglit 
f letter  to  her;  expecting  to  hear  from  her  father,  she  eagerly  opened 

and  to  her  great  surprise  perused  the  following  lines; 

TO  MISS  DUNFORD. 

Lord  Mortimer  b^gs  leave  to  assure  Miss  Dunford,  he  shall  remain  dissatisfied  with  him- 
self, till  he  has  an  opportunity  of  personally  apologizing  for  his  intrusion  yesterday.  If  the 
sweetness  c ! her  disposition  fulfills  the  promise  her  face  has  given  it,  he  flatters  himself  his 
pardon  will  sj  eedily  be  accorded  ; yet  never  shall  he  think  himself  entirely  forgiven,  if  her 
visits  to  the  library  are  discontinued — Happy  and  honoured  shall  Lord  Mortimer  consider 
himself,  if  Tudor  Hall  contains  anything,  which  can  amuse,  or  merit  the  attention  of  Miss 
Dunford. 

July  l itV. 

“From  Lord  Mortimer!”  said  Amanda,  with  involuntary  emotion, 
“Well,  this  really  has  astonished  me.” 

“ Oh  lort,  my  tear!”  cried  the  nurse  in  rapture. 

Amanda  waved  her  hand  to  silence  her,  as  the  servant  stood  in  the 
outside  room.  She  called  Betsey;  “Tell  the  servant,”  said  she — 

“ Lort,”  cried  the  nurse,  softly,  and  twitching  her  sleeve,  “ write 
his  lortship  a little  pit  of  a note,  just  to  let  him  see  what  a pretty 
scribe  you  are.” 

Amanda  could  not  forbear  smiling;  but  disengaging  herself  from 
the  good  woman,  she  rose,  and  going  to  the  seivant,  desired  him 
to  tell  his  lord  she  thanked  him  for  his  polite  attention;  but  that 
In  future  it  would  not  be  in  her  power  to  go  to  the  library.  When  sn<^ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  XBBKT 


53 


returned  to  the  room,  the  nurse  bitterly  lamented  her  not  writing. 
“ Great  matters,”  she  said,  ‘‘  had  often  arisen  from  small  beginnings. 
She  could  not  conceive  why  his  lortship  should  be  treated  in  such  a 
manner : it  was  not  the  way  she  had  ever  served  her  Edwin.  Lort, 
she  remembered,  if  she  got  but  the  scrawl  of  a pen  from  him,  she 
used  to  sit  up  to  answer  it.”  Amanda  tried  to  persuade  her  it  was 
neither  necessary  nor  proper  for  her  to  write.  An  hour  passed  in  argu- 
ments between  them,  when  two  servants  came  from  Tudor  Hall  to  the 
cottage  with  a small  book-case,  which  they  sent  in  tc  Amanda,  and  their 
lord’s  compliments,  that  in  a few  minutes  he  would  have  the  honour 
of  paying  his  respects  to  her. 

Amanda  felt  agitated  by  this  message,  but  it  was  the  agitation  of 
involuntary  pleasure.  Her  room  was  always  perfectly  neat,  yet  did 
the  nurse  and  her  two  daughters  now  busy  themselves  with  trying,  if 
possible,  to  put  it  into  nicer  order ; the  garden  was  ransacked  for  the 
choicest  flowers  to  ornament  it ; nor  would  they  depart,  till  they  saw 
Lord  Mortimer  approaching. — ^Amanda,  who  had  opened  the  book- 
case, then  snatched  up  a book,  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  sitting 
in  expectation  of  his  coming. 

He  entered  with  an  air  at  once  easy  and  respectful,  and,  taking  her 
hand,  besought  forgiveness  for  his  intrusion  on  the  preceding  day. 
Amanda  blushed,  and  faltered  out  something  of  the  confusion  she  had 
experienced  from  being  so  surprised : he  re-seated  her,  and  drawing  a 
chair  close  to  hers,  said  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  sending  a few 
books  to  amuse  her,  till  she  again  condescended  to  visit  the  library, 
which  he  entreated  her  to  do ; promising  that,  if  she  pleased,  both 
it  and  the  music-room  should  be  sacred  to  her  alone.  She  thanked 
hini  for  his  politeness ; but  declared  she  must  be  excused  from  going. 
Lord  Mortimer  regarded  her  with  a degree  of  tender  admiration ; an 
admiration  lieightened  by  the  contrast  he  drew  in  his  mind  between 
her  and  the  generality  of  fashionable  women  he  had  seen,  whom 
he  often  secretly  censured  for  sacrificing  too  largely  at  the  shrine  of 
art  and  fashion.  The  pale  and  varied  blush  which  mantled  tlie  clieek 
of  Amanda,  at  once  announced  itself  to  be  an  involuntary  suffusion ; 
and  her  dress  was  only  remarkable  for  its  simjilicity ; she  wore  a plain 
robe  of  dimity,  and  an  abbey  cap  of  thin  muslin,  tliat  shaded  without 
concealing  her  face,  and  gave  to  it  the  soft  expression  of  a Madonna; 


54  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 

her  beautiful  hair  fell  in  }on£(  ringlets  down  her  back,  and  curled  upon 
her  forehead. 

‘‘Good  heaven!”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  “how  has  your  idea  dwelt 
upon  my  mind  since  last  niglit ! if  in  the  morning  I was  charmed,  in 
the  evening  I was  enraptured.  Your  looks,  your  attitude,  were  then 
beyond  all  that  imagination  could  conceive  of  loveliness  and  grace : 
you  appeared  as  a being  of  another  world,  mourning  over  a kindred 
spirit.  J felt 

Awe-struck,  and  as  I passed,  I worshipped.” 

Confused  by  the  energy  of  his  words,  and  the  ardent  glances  La 
directed  towards  her,  Amanda  scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  book  she  still  held  in  her  hand ; in  doing  so,  she 
saw  written  on  the  title  page,  the  Earl  of  Oherbury. — “Cherbury!” 
repeated  she,  in  astonishment. 

“ Do  you  know  him  ?”  asked  Lord  Mortimer. 

“Kot  personally;  but  I revere,  I esteem  him;  he  is  one  of  the 
best,  the  truest  friends  my  father  ever  had.” 

“ Oh  how  happy,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  “ would,  his  son  be, 
were  he  capable  of  inspiring  you  with  such  sentiments  as  you  avow 
for  him.” 

“His  son!”  repeated  Amanda,  in  a tone  of  surprise,  and  looking  at 
Lord  Mortin.er. 

“ Yes,”  replied  he.  “ Is  it  then  possible,”  he  continued,  “ that  you 
are  really  ignorant  of  his  being  my  father  ?” 

Surprise  kept  her  silent  a few  minutes ; for  her  father  had  never 
given  her  any  account  of  the  earl’s  family,  till  about  the  period  he 
thought  of  applying  to  him  ; and  her  mind  was  so  distracted  at  that 
time  on  his  own  account,  that  she  scarcely  understood  a word  ho 
littered.  In  the  country  she  had  never  heard  Lord  Gherbury  men- 
tioned ; for  Tudor  Hall  belonged  not  to  him,  but  to  Lord  Mortimer, 
to  whom  an  uncle  had  bequeathed  it. 

“ I thought,  indeed,  my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  as  soon  as  she  recov- 
ered her  voice,  “ that  your  lordship’s  title  was  familiar  to  me ; 
though  why,  from  the  hurry  and  perplexity  in  which  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances involved  me,  I could  not  tell.” 

“Oh  suffer,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  with  one  of  his  most  insinuating 
smiles,  “ tli<  friendship  our  parents  feel  to  be  continued  to  their  chil- 


CHILDREN  O t THE  ABBET, 


55 


dren — ^let  taking  her  soft  band,  and  pressing  his  ^ips  to  it,  ho 

the  pledge  of  amity  between  us.”  He  now  inquired  when  the 
intimacy  between  her  father  and  his  had  commenced,  and  where  the 
former  was ; but  from  those  inquiries  Amanda  shrunk.  She  reflected 
that  without  her  father’s  permission  she  had  no  right  to  answer 
_ them ; and  that  in  a situation  like  his  and  hers,  too  much  caution 
could  not  be  observed.  Besides,  both  pride  and  delicacy  made  her 
solicitous  at  present  to  conceal  her  father’s  real  situation  from  Lord 
Mortimer ; she  could  not  bear  to  think  it  should  be  known  his  sole 
dependence  was  on  Lord  Cherbury,  uncertain  as  it  was,  whether  that 
nobleman  would  ever  answer  his  expectations.  She  repented  having 
ever  dropped  a hint  of  the  intimacy  subsisting  between  them,  which 
surprise  alone  had  made  her  do ; and  tried  to  wave  the  subject.  In 
this  design  Lord  Mortimer  assisted  her ; for  he  had  too  much  pene- 
tration not  instantly  to  perceive  it  confused  and  distressed  her.  He 
requested  permission  to  renew  his  visit ; but  Amanda,  though  well 
inclined  to  grant  his  request,  yielded  to  prudence  instead  of  inclina- 
tion, and  begged  he  would  excuse  her;  the  seeming  disparity  (she 
could  not  help  saying)  in  their  situations  would  render  it  very  impru 
dent  in  her  to  receive  such  visits ; she  blushed,  half-sighed,  and  bent 
her  eyes  to  the  ground  as  she  spoke.  Lord  Mortimer  continued  to 
entreat,  but  she  was  steady  in  refusing ; he  would  not  depart,  how- 
ever, till  he  had  obtained  permission  to  attend  her  in  the  evening  to 
a part  of  Tudor  Grove,  which  she  had  never  yet  seen,  and  he 
described  as  particularly  beautiful.  He  wanted  to  call  for  her  at  the 
appointed  hour,  but  she  would  not  suffer  this ; and  he  was  compelled 
to  be  contented  with  leave  to  meet  her  near  the  cottage  when  it 
came. 

With  a beating  heart  she  kept  her  appointment,  and  found  his 
lordship  not  many  yards  distant  from  the  cottage,  impatiently  wait- 
ing her  approach.  A brighter  bloom  than  usual  glowed  upon  her 
cheek,  as  she  listened  to  his  ardent  expressions  of  admiration ; yet 
not  to  such  expressions  which  would  soon  have  sated  an  ear  of 
delicacy  like  Amanda’s  did  Lord  Mortimer  confine  himself;  he  con- 
versed on  various  subjects ; and  the  eloquence  of  his  language,  the 
liveliness  of  his  imagination,  and  the  justness  of  his  remarks,  equally 
amused  and  interested  his  fair  companion.  There  was  indeed,  in  the 
disposition  and  manners  of  Lord  Mortimer,  that  happy  mixture  of 


50 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


animation  and  softness,  which  at  once  amuses  the  fancy  and  attracts 
the  heart ; and  never  had  Amanda  experienced  such  minutts  as  she 
now  passed  with  him ; so  delightful  in  theii  progress,  so  rapid  in 
their  course.  On  entering  the  walk  he  had  mentioned  to  her,  she 
saw  he  had  not  exaggerated  its  beauties ; after  passing  through  many 
long  and  shaded  alleys,  they  came  to  a smooth  green  lawn,  about 
which  the  trees  rose  in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre,  and  their  dark, 
luxuriant,  and  chequered  shades  proclaimed  that  amongst  them 

The  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard,  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

Miltox. 

The  lawn  gently  sloped  to  a winding  stream,  so  clear  as  perfectly 
to  reflect  the  beautiful  scenery  of  heaven  now  glowing  with  the  gold 
and  purple  of  the  setting  sun ; from  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream 
rose  a stupendous  mountain,  diversified  with  little  verdant  hills  and 
dales,  and  skirted  with  a wild  shrubbery,  whose  blossoms  perfumed 
the  air  with  the  most  balmy  fragrance.  Lord  Mortimer  prevailed 
on  Amanda  to  sit  down  upon  a rustic  bench  beneath  the  spreading 
Dranches  of  an  oak,  enwreathed  with  ivy ; here  they  had  not  sat  long 
ere  the  silence  which  reigned  around  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 
strains,  at  once  low,  solemn,  and  melodious,  that  seemed  to  creep 
along  the  water,  till  they  had  reached  the  place  where  they  sat ; and 
then,  as  if  a naiad  of  the  stream  had  left  her  rosy  couch  to  do  theut 
homage,  they  swelled  by  degrees  into  full  melody,  which  the  moun- 
tain  echoes  alternately  revived  and  heightened.  It  appeared  like 
enchantment  to  Amanda,  and  her  eyes,  turned  to  Lord  Mortimer, 
seemed  to  say,  it  was  to  his  magic  it  was  owing.  After  enjoying  her 
surprise  some  minutes,  he  acknowledged  the  music  proceeded  from 
two  servants  of  his  who  played  on  the  clarionet  and  French  horn, 
and  were  stationed  in  a dell  of  the  opposite  mountain.  Notwith- 
standing all  her  former  thoughts  to  the  contrary,  Amanda  now  con- 
ceived a strong  suspicion,  that  Lord  Mortimer  was  really  the  person 
who  had  serenaded  her : that  she  conceived  pleasure  from  the  idea, 
is  scarcely  necessary  to  say : she  had  reason  soon  to  find  she  was  not 
mistaken.  Lord  Mortimer  solicited  her  for  the  lady’s  song  in  Comus, 
saying  the  present  situation  was  peculiarly  adapted  to  it:  on  her 
hesitating,  he  told  her  she  had  no  plea  to  ofier  for  not  complying,  as 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET 


57 


he  himself  had  heard  her  enchanting  powers  in  it.  Amanda  started, 
and  eagerly  inquired  when  or  by  what  means.  It  was  too  late  foi 
his  lordship  to  recede;  and  he  not  only  confessed  his  concealment 
near  the  music-room,  but  his  visit  to  her  window.  A soft  confusion, 
intermingled  with  pleasure,  pervaded  the  soul  of  Amanda  at  this 
confession : and  it  was  some  time  ere  she  was  sufficiently  composed  to 
comply  with  Lord  Mortimer’s  solicitations  for  her  to  sing ; she  at  last 
allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the  centre  of  a little  rustic  bridge  thrown 
over  the  stream,  from  whence  her  voice  could  be  sufficiently  distin- 
guished for  the  music  to  keep  time  to  it,  as  Lord  Mortimer  had 
directed.  Her  plaintive  and  harmonious  invocation,  answered  by  the 
low  breathing  of  the  clarionet,  which  appeared  like  the  softest  echo 
of  the  mountain,  had  the  finest  effect  imaginable,  and  “took  the 
imprisoned  soul  and  wrapped  it  in  Elysium.” 

Lord  Mortimer,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  found  himself  at  a loss 
to  express  wkat  he  felt : he  conducted  her  back  to  the  seat,  where,  to 
her  astonishment,  she  beheld  fruits,  ices,  and  creams,  laid  out  as  if 
by  the  hand  of  magic,  for  no  mortal  appeared  near  the  spot.  Dusky 
twilight  now  warned  her  to  return  home ; but  Lord  Mortimer  would 
not  suffer  her  to  depart,  till  she  had  partaken  of  this  collation. 

He  was  not  by  any  means  satisfied  with  the  idea  of  only  beholding 
her  for  an  hour  or  two  of  an  evening ; and  when  they  came  near  the 
cottage,  desired  to  know  whether  it  was  to  chance  alone  he  was  in 
future  to  be  indebted  for  seeing  her.  Again  he  entreated  permission 
to  visit  her  sometimes  in  the  morning,  promising  he  would  never 
disturb  her  avocations,  but  would  be  satisfied  merely  to  sit  and  read 
to  her,  v/henever  she  chose  to  work,  and  felt  herself  inclined  for  that 
amusement : Amanda’s  refusals  grew  fainter,  and  at  last  she  said,  on 
the  above  mentioned  conditions,  he  might  sometimes  come.  That  he 
availed  himself  of  this  permission  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say ; and 
from  this  time  few  hours  passed  without  their  seeing  each  other. 

The  cold  reserve  of  Amanda  by  degrees  wore  away;  from  her 
knowledge  of  his  family,  she  considered  him  more  than  a new  or 
common  acquaintance.  The  emotion  she  felt  for  him,  she  thought 
sanctioned  by  that  knowledge,  and  the  gratitude  she  felt  for  Lord 
OLerbury  for  his  former  conduct  to  her  father,  which  claimed^ 
she  thought,  her  respect  and  esteem  for  so  near  an'd  valuable  a 
connexion  of  his;  the  worth,  she  could  not  help  acknowledging  to 

8* 


58 


CHILD  II  BN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


hersfeK  of  Lord  Mortimer,  would  of  itself  alone  have  authorized 
them.  Her  heart  felt  he  was  one  of  the  most  amiable,  the  most  pleas- 
ing of  men:  she  could  scarcely  disguise,  in  any  degree,  the  lively 
pleasure  sA«  experienced  in  his  society ; nay,  she  scarcely  thought  it 
necessary  to  disguise  it,  for  it  resulted  as  much  from  innocence  as 
sensibility,  and  was  placed  to  the  account  of  friendship. 

But  Lord  Mortimer  was  too  penetrating,  not  soon  to  perceive  he 
might  ascribe  it  to  a softer  impulse ; with  the  most  delicate  attention, 
the  most  tender  regard,  he  daily,  nay  hourly,  insinuated  himself*  into 
her  heart,  and  secured  for  himself  an  interest  in  it,  ere  she  was  aware, 
which  the  efforts  of  subsequent  resolution  could  not  overcome.  ’ He 
was  the  companion  of  her  rambles,  the  alleviator  of  her  griefs ; the 
care  which  so  often  saddened  her  brow  always  vanished  at  his  pre- 
sence ; and  in  conversing  with  him  she  forgot  every  cause  of  sorrow. 

He  once  or  twice  delicately  hinted  at  those  circumstances  which  at 
liis  first  visit  she  had  mentioned,  as  sufficiently  distressing  to  bewil- 
der her  recollection ; Amanda,  with  blushes,  always  shrunk  from  the 
subject,  sickening  at  the  idea  of  his  knowing,  that  her  father  depend- 
ed upon  his  for  future  support.  If  he  ever  addressed  her  seriously  on 
the  subject  of  the  regard  he  professed  for  her  (which  from  his  atten- 
tion, she  could  not  help  sometimes  flattering  herself  would  be  the 
case)  then  indeed  there  would  be  no  longer  room  for  concealment ; 
but  except  such  a circumstance  took  place,  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  make  any  humiliating  discovery. 

Tudor  Grove  was  the  favourite  scene  of  their  rambles : sometimes 
she  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the  music  room : but  as  these  visits 
were  not  frequent,  a lute  was  brought  from  it  to  the  cottage,  and  in 
the  recess  in  the  garden  she  often  sung  and  played  for  the  enraptured 
Mortimer;  there  too  he  frequently  read  for  her,  always  selecting 
some  elegant  and  pathetic  piece  of  poetry,  to  which  the  harmony  of 
his  voice  gave  additional  charms;  a voice  which  sunk  into  the  heart 
of  Amanda,  and  interested  her  sensibility  even  more  than  the  subject 
he  perused. 

Often  straying  to  the  valley’s  verge,  as  they  contemplated  the  lovely 
prospect  around,  only  bounded  by  distant  and  stupendous  moun- 
tains, Lord  Mortimer,  in  strains  of  eloquence,  would  describe  the 
beautiful  scenes  and  extensive  landscapes  beyond  them;  and  when 
Amanda  expressed  a wish  (as  she  sometimes  would  from  thoughtless 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


59 


innocence)  of  viewing  them,  he  would  softly  sigh,  and  wish  he  was 
to  he  her  guide  to  them,  as  to  point  out  beauties  to  a refined  and  cul- 
tivated taste  like  hers  would  be  to  him  the  greatest  pleasure  he  could 
possibly  experience. 

Seated  sometimes  on  the  brow  of  a shrubby  hill,  as  they  viewed 
the  scattered  hamlets  beneath,  he  would  expatiate  on  the  pleasure  he 
conceived  there  must  be  in  passing  a tranquil  life  with  one  lovely  and 
beloved  object : his  insidious  eyes,  turned  towards  Amanda,  at  these 
minutes  seemed  to  say,  she  was  the  being  who  could  realize  all  the 
ideas  he  entertained  of  such  a life ; and  when  he  asked  her  opinion 
of  his  sentiments,  her  disordered  blushes,  and  faltering  accents,  too 
plainly  betrayed  her  conscious  feelings.  Every  delicacy  which  Tudor 
Hall  contained,  was  daily  sent  to  the  cottage,  notwithstanding 
Amanda’s  prohibition  to  the  contrary ; and  sometimes  Lord  Mortimer 
was  permitted  to  dine  with  her  in  the  recess.  Three  weeks  spent  in 
this  familiar  manner,  endeared  and  attached  them  to  each  other  more 
than  months  would  have  done,  passed  in  situations  liable  to  interrup- 
tion. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

She  alone, 

Heard,  felt,  and  seen,  possesses  every  thought, 

Fills  every  sense,  and  pants  in  every  vein. 

Books  are  but  formal  dulness,  tedious  friends, 

And  sad  amid  the  social  band  he  sits. 

Lonely  and  unattentive.  From  his  tongue 
Th*  unfinish’d  period  falls,  while  borne  away 
On  swelling  thought,  his  wafted  spirit  flies 
To  the  vain  bosom  of  the  distant  fair. 

Tuomsov. 

Howell  was  no  stranger  to  the  manner  in  which  hours  rolled  away 
at  the  cottage;  he  hovered  round  it,  and  seized  every  interval  of 
Lord  Mortimer’s  absence,  to  present  himself  before  Amanda : his 
emotions  betrayed  his  feelings,  and  Amanda  affiectod  reserve  towards 
him,  in  hopes  of  suppressing  his  passion ; a passion,  she  now  began 
to  think,  when  hopeless,  must  be  dreadful. 


60 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF, 


Howell  was  a prey  to  melancholy;  but  not  for  himself  alone  did 
he  mourn ; fears  for  the  safety  and  happiness  of  Amanda  added  to  his 
dejection ; he  dreaded  that  Lord  Mortimer,  perhaps,  like  too  many  of 
the  fashionable  men,  might  make  no  scruple  of  availing  himself  of 
any  advantage  which  could  be  derived  from  a predilection  in  his 
favour. 

He  knew  him,  ’tis  true,  to  be  amiable : but  in  opposition  to  that, 
he  knew  him  to  be  volatile,  and  sometimes  wild,  and  he  trembled  for 
the  unsuspecting  credulity  of  Amanda.  Though  lost  to  me,” 
exclaimed  the  unhappy  young  man,  “ oh  never,  sweetest  Amanda, 
mayest  thou  be  lost  to  thyself.” 

He  had  received  many  proofs  of  esteem  and  friendship  from  Lord 
Mortimer;  he  therefore  studied  how  he  might  admonish  without  offend- 
ing, and  save  Amanda  without  injuring  himself.  It  at  last  occurred 
that  the  pulpit  would  be  the  surest  way  of  effecting  his  wishes,  where 
the  subject  addressed  to  all,  might  particularly  strike  the  one  for 
whom  it  was  intended,  without  appearing  as  if  designed  for  that  pur- 
pose ; and  timely  convince  him,  if  indeed  he  meditated  any  injurious 
design  against  Amanda,  of  its  flagrance. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  as  he  expected.  Lord  Mortimer  and 
Amanda  attended  service ; his  lordsliip’s  pew  was  opposite  the  one 
she  sat  in,  and  we  fear  his  eyes  too  often  wandered  in  that  direction. 

The  youthful  monitor  at  last  ascended  the  pulpit : his  text  was 
from  Jeremiah,  and  to  the  following  effect : 

“ She  weepeth  sore  in  the  night,  and  her  tears  are  on  her  cheeks ; 
among  all  her  lovers  she  hath  none  to  comfort  her ; all  her  friends 
Lave  dealt  treacherously  with  her,  they  are  become  her  enemies.” 

After  a slight  introduction,  in  which  he  regretted  that  the  declen- 
sion of  moral  principles  demanded  such  an  exhortation  as  he  was 
about  giving,  he  commenced  his  subject;  he  described  a young 
femaiC,  adorned  with  beauty  and  innocence,  walking  forward  in  the 
path  of  integrity,  which  a virtuous  education  had  early  marked  for 
lier  to  take,  and  rejoicing,  as  she  went,  with  all  around  her ; when, 
in  the  midst  of  her  happiness,  unexpected  calamity  suddenly  sur- 
prised, and  precipitated  her  from  prosperity  into  the  deepest  distress : 
he  described  the  benefits  she  derived,  in  this  trying  period,  from  early 
implanted  virtue  and  religion ; taught  by  them  (he  proceeded)  the 
lovely  mourner  turns  not  to  the  world  for  consolation — no,  she  looks 


OUILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


61 


np  to  her  Creator  for  comfort,  wliose  supporting  aid  is  so  particularly 
promised  to  afflicted  worth.  Cheered  by  them  she  is  able  to  exeit  tho 
little  talents  of  genius  and  taste,  and  draw  upon  industry  for  her  future 
support ; her  active  virtue,  she  thinks  the  best  proofs  of  submission 
she  can  give  to  the  will  of  heaven : and  in  these  laudable  exertions 
she  finds  a conscious  peace,  which  the  mere  possession  of  fortune 
never  could  bestow.  While  thus  employed,  a son  of  perfidy  sees  and 
jiiarks  her  for  his  prey,  because  she  is  at  once  lovely  and  helpless ; 
her  unsuspecting  credulity  lays  her  open  to  his  arts,  and  his  blandisli* 
ments  by  degrees  allure  her  heart,  the  snare  which  he  has  spread  at 
last  involves  her : with  the  inconstancy  of  libertinism  he  soon  desert  c 
her,  and  again  she  is  plunged  into  distress.  But  mark  the  diflference 
of  her  first  and  second  fall ; conscience  no  longer  lends  its  opposing 
aid  to  stem  her  sorrow ; despair,  instead  of  hope,  arises ; without 
one  friend  to  soothe  the  pains  of  death,  one  pitying  soul  to  whisper 
peace  to  her  departing  spirit ; insulted  too,  perhaps,  by  some  unfeeling 
being,  whom  want  of  similar  temptations  alone,  perhaps  saved  from 
similar  imprudences ; she  sinks  an  early  victim  to  wretchedness. 
Howell  paused ; the  fullness  of  his  heart  mounted  to  his  eyes,  which 
involuntarily  turned  and  rested  upon  Amanda ; interested  by  his  sim- 
ple and  pathetic  eloquence,  she  had  risen,  and  leaned  over  the  pew, 
her  head  rested  on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  fastened  on  his  face.  Lord 
Mortimer  had  also  risen,  and  alternately  gazed  on  Howell  and  Aman- 
da, particularly  watched  the  latter,  to  see  how  the  subject  would 
affect  her.  He  at  last  saw  the  tears  trickling  dowm  her  cheeks ; the 
distresses  of  her  own  situation,  and  the  stratagems  of  Belgrave,  made 
her^  in  some  respects,  perceive  the  resemblance  between  herself  and 
the  picture  Howell  had  drawn.  Lord  Mortimer  was  unutterably 
affected  by  her  tears,  a faint  sickness  seized  him,  he  sunk  upon  his 
Beat,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  handkerchief  to  hide  his  emotion ; 
but  by  the  time  service  was  over,  it  was  pretty  well  dissipated. 
Amanda  returned  home,  and  Lord  Mortimer  waited  for  Howell’s 
coming  out  of  church.  “What  the  devil,  Howell,”  said  he,  “did 
you  mean  by  giving  such  an  exhortation  ? Have  you  discovered  any 
little  affair  going  on  between  some  of  your  rustic  neighbours  ?”  Tlie 
parson  coloured,  but  remained  silent ; Lord  Mortimer  rallied  him  a 
little  more,  and  then  departed ; but  his  gaiety  was  only  assumed. 

On  his  first  acquaintance  with  Amanda,  in  con  sequence,  of  what 


Ci  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 

he  heard  from  Mrs.  Abergwiily,  and  observed  himself,  he  had  been 
tempted  to  think  her  involved  in  mystery ; and  what  but  impropriety, 
ha  thought,  could  occasion  mystery.  To  see  so  young,  so  lovely,  so 
elegant  a creature,  an  inmate  of  a sequestered  cottage,  associating 
with  people  (in  manners  at  least)  so  infinitely  beneath  her ; to  see  her 
trembling  and  blushing  if  a word  was  dropped  that  seemed  tending 
to  inquire  into  her  motives  for  retirement ; all  these  circumstances, 
I say,  considered,  naturally  excited  a suspicion  iqjurious  to  her  in  the 
mind  of  Mortimer;  and  he  was  tempted  to  think  some  deviation 
from  prudence  had,  by  depriving  her  of  the  favour  of  her  friends, 
made  her  retire  to  obscurity;  and  that  she  would  not  dislike  an 
opportunity  of  emerging  from  it,  he  could  not  help  thinking.  In 
consequence  of  these  ideas,  he  could  not  think  himself  very  culpable 
in  encouraging  the  wishes  her  loveliness  gave  rise  to : besides,  he  had 
some  reason  to  suspect  she  desired  to  inspire  him  with  these  wishes ; 
for  Mrs.  Abergwilly  told  him  she  had  informed  Mrs.  Edwin  of  his 
arrival ; an  information  he  could  not  doubt  her  having  immediately 
communicated  to  Amanda ; therefore,  her  continuing  to  come  to  the 
Hall  seemed  as  if  she  wished  to  throw  herself  in  his  way.  Mrs. 
Edwin  had  indeed  been  told  of  his  arrival,  but  concealed  it  from 
Amanda,  that  she  should  not  be  disappointed  from  going  to  the  Hall, 
to  which  she  knew,  if  once  informed  of  it,  she  would  not  go. 

’Tis  true.  Lord  Mortimer  saw  Amanda  wore,  at  least,  the  semblance 
of  innocence ; but  this  could  not  remove  his  suspicions,  so  often  had 
he  seen  it  assumed,  to  hide  the  artful  stratagems  of  a depraved  heart. 

Ah ! why  will  the  lovely  female,  adorned  with  all  that  heaven  and 
earth  can  bestow  to  render  her  amiable,  overleap  the  modesty  of 
nature,  and  by  levity  and  boldness  lose  aU  pretensions  to  the  esteem 
which  would  otherwise  be  her  involuntary  tribute. 

Hor  is  it  herself  alone  she  injures ; she  hurts  each  child  of  purity ; 
helps  to  point  the  sting  of  ridicule,  and  weave  the  web  of  art. 

We  shun  the  blazing  sun,  but  court  his  tempered  beams;  the  rose 
which  glares  upon  the  day,  is  never  so  much  sought  as  the  bud 
enwrapped  in  the  foliage ; and,  to  use  the  expression  of  a late  much 
admired  author,  ‘Hhe  retiring  graces  have  ever  been  reckoned  the 
most  beautiful.” 

He  had  never  heard  the  earl  mention  a person  of  the  name  of 
Hunford ; and  he  knew  not,  or  rather  suspected,  little  credit  was  to 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


33 


be  given  to  her  assertion  of  an  intimacy  between  them,  particularly 
as  he  saw  her,  whenever  the  subject  was  mentioned,  shrinking  horn 
it  in  the  greatest  confusion. 

Her  reserve  he  imputed  to  pretence;  and,  flattering  himself  it 
would  soon  wear  ofi",  determined,  for  the  present  at  least,  to  humour 
her  affectation. 

With  such  ideas,  such  sentiments,  had  Lord  Mortimer’s  first  visit 
to  Amanda  commenced ; but  they  experienced  an  immediate  change, 
as  the  decreasing  reserve  of  her  manners  gave  him  greater  and  more 
frequent  opportunities  of  discovering  her  mental  perfections;  the 
strength  of  her  understanding,  the  justness  of  her  remarks,  the  live- 
liness of  her  fancy;  above  all,  the  purity  which  mingled  in  every  sen- 
timent, and  the  modesty  which  accompanied  every  word,  filled  him 
with  delight  and  amazement ; his  doubts  gradually  lessened,  and  at 
last  vanished,  and  with  them  every  design,  which  they,  alone,  had 
ever  given  rise  to.  Esteem  was  now  united  to  love,  and  real  respect 
to  admiration : in  her  society  he  only  was  happy,  and  thought  not, 
or  rather,  would  not  suffer  himself  to  think,  on  the  consequence  of 
such  an  attachment.  It  might  be  said  he  was  entranced  in  pleasure, 
from  which  Howell  completely  roused  him,  and  made  him  seriously 
ask  his  heart,  what  were  its  intentions  relative  to  Amanda. — Of  such 
views  as  he  perceived  Howell  suspected  him  of  harbouring,  his  con- 
science entirely  acquitted  him ; yet  so  great  were  the  obstacles  he  knew 
in  the  way  of  an  union  between  him  and  Amanda,  that  he  almost 
regretted  (as  every  one  does  who  acts  against  their  better  judgment) 
that  he  had  not  fled  at  the  first  intimation  of  his  danger.  So  truly 
formidable  indeed,  did  these  obstacles  appear,  that  he  at  times 
resolved  to  break  with  Amanda,  if  he  could  fix  upon  any  plan  for 
doing  so,  without  injuring  his  honour,  after  the  great  attention  he 
had  paid  her. 

Ere  he  came  to  any  final  determination,  however,  he  resolved  to 
try  and  discover  her  real  situation ; if  he  even  left  her,  it  would  bo 
a satisfaction  to  his  heart  to  know,  whether  his  friendship  could  be 
serviceable ; and  if  an  opposite  measure  was  his  plan,  it  could  never 
be  put  in  execution,  without  the  desired  information.  He  accord* 
ingly  vrrote  to  his  sister.  Lady  Araminta  Dormer,  who  was  then  in 
tlie  country  with  Lord  Cherbury,  to  request  she  would  inquire  from 
Vis  father,  wliether  he  kn«  w a person  of  the  name  of  Dunford ; and, 


64 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


if  iic  did,  what  his  situation  and  family  were.  Lord  Mortimer  begged 
her  Ladyship  not  to  mention  the  inquiries  being  dictated  by  him, 
and  promised,  at  some  future  period,  to  explain  the  reason  of  them. 
He  still  continued  his  assiduities  to  Amanda,  and  at  the  expected 
time  received  an  answer  to  his  letter ; but  how  was  he  shocked  and 
alarmed,  when  informed,  Lord  Cherbury  never  knew  a person  of  the 
name  of  Dunford!  His  doubts  began  to  revive;  but  before  he 
yielded  entirely  to  them,  he  resolved  to  go  to  Amanda,  and  inquire 
from  her,  in  the  most  explicit  terms,  how,  and  at  what  time,  her 
father  and  the  earl  had  become  acquainted;  determined,  if  she 
answered  him  without  embarrassment,  to  mention  to  his  sister  what- 
ever circumstances  she  related,  lest  a forgetfulness  of  them  had  alone 
made  the  earl  deny  his  knowledge  of  Dunford.  Just  as  he  was  pass- 
ing the  grove  with  this  intent,  he  espied  Edwin  and  his  wife  coming 
down  a cross-road  from  the  village  where  they  had  been  with  poul- 
try and  vegetables  ; it  instantly  occurred  to  him,  that  these  people,  in 
the  simplicity  of  their  hearts,  might  unfold  the  real  situation  of 
Amanda,  and  save  him  the  painful  necessity  of*  making  inquiries, 
w'hich  she,  perhaps,  would  not  answer,  without  his  real  motives  for 
making  them  assigned,  which  was  what  he  could  not  think  of  doing. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  proceeding,  he  stopped  till  they  came  up  to 
him,  and  then,  with  the  most  engaging  affability,  addressed  them, 
inquiring  w^hether  they  had  been  successful  in  the  disposfJ  of  their 
goods;  they  answered  bowing  and  curtseying;  and  he  then  insisted 
that,  as  they  appeared  tired,  they  should  repair  to  the  Hall,  and  rest 
themselves.  This  was  too  great  an  honour  to  be  refused ; and  they 
followed  their  noble  conducter,  who  hastened  forward,  to  order 
refreshment  into  a parlour  for  them.  The  nurse,  who,  in  her  owm 
’^Yay,  was  a cunning  woman,  instantly  suspected,  from  the  great  and 
uncommon  attention  of  Lord  Mortimer,  that  he  wanted  to  inquire 
into  the  situation  of  Amanda.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  at  some  dis- 
tance, “ David,”  cried  she,  “ as  sure  as  eggs  are  eggs  (unpinning  her 
white  apron,  and  smoothing  it  nicely  down  as  she  spoke),  this 
young  lort  w^ants  to  have  our  company,  that  he  may  find  out  something 
apout  Miss  Amanda.  Ahl  pless  her  pretty  face,  I thought  how  it 
would  be;  but  we  must  be  as  cunning  as  foxes,  and  not  tell  too  much 
or  too  little ; because,  if  we  told  too  much,  it  would  ofibnd  her,  and 
she  would  ask  us  how  w^o  got  all  our  intelligence,  and  w'ould  nol 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


65 


think  U9  over  and  above  genteel,  when  she  heard  we  had  siffced 
Jemmy  Hawthorn  for  it,  when  he  came  down  from  London  witli  her 
All  we  must  do  is  just  to  drop  some  hints,  as  it  were,  of  her  situg  • 
tion,  and  then  his  lordship,  to  be  sure,  will  make  his  advantage  of 
them,  and  ask  her  every  thing  apout  herself,  and  then  she  will  tell 
him  all  of  her  own  accord : so,  David,  mind  what  I say,  I charge  you.” 
‘‘Ay,  ay,”  cried  David,  “leave  me  alone;  ITi  warrant  you’ll  always 
find  an  old  soldier  cute  enough  for  any  poty.’’  When  they  reached 
the  Hall  they  were  shown  into  a parlour,  where  Lord  Mortimer  was 
expecting  them ; with  difiiculty  he  made  them  sit  down  at  the  table, 
where  meat  and  wine  were  laid  out  for  them : after  they  had  par- 
taken of  them.  Lord  Mortimer  began  with  asking  Edwin  some  ques- 
tions about  his  farm  (for  he  was  a tenant  on  the  Tudor  estate),  and 
whether  there  was  any  thing  wanting  to  render  it  more  comfortable. 
“ No,”  Edwin  replied,  with  a low  bow,  thanking  his  honourable  lord- 
ship  for  his  inquiry.  Lord  Mortimer  spoke  of  his  family.  “ Ay,  Cot 
pless  the  poor  things,”  Edwin  said,  “ they  were  to  be  sure  a fine 
thriving  set  of  children.”  Still  Lord  Mortimer  had  not  touched  on 
the  subject  nearest  his  heart ; he  felt  embarrassed  and  agitated : at 
last,  with  as  much  composure  as  he  could  assume,  he  asked  how 
long  they  imagined  Miss  Dunford  would  stay  with  them.  Now  was 
the  nurse’s  time  to  speak ; she  had  hitherto  sat  simpering  and  bow- 
ing. “That  depended  on  circumstances,”  she  said.  “Poor  tear 
young  laty,  though  their  little  cottage  was  so  obscure,  and  so  unlike 
any  thing  she  had  before  been  accustomed  to,  she  made  herself  quite 
happy  with  it.”  “ Her  father  must  miss  her  society  very  much,” 
exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer.  “ Tear  heart,  to  be  sure  he  does,”  cried 
nurse.  “ Well,  strange  things  happen  every  tay ; but  still  I never 
thought  what  tid  happen  would  have  happened,  to  make  the  poor 
old  gentleman  and  his  daughter  part.”  “ What  happened  ?”  exclaimed 
Lord  Mortimer,  starting,  and  suddenly  stopping  in  the  middle  of  the 
room;  for  hitherto  he  had  been  walking  backwards  and  forwards. 
’Twas  not  her  business,  the  nurse  replied,  by  no  manner  of  means,  to 
be  speaking  apout  the  affairs  of  her  petters ; but  for  all  that,  she 
could  not  help  saying,  because  she  thought  it  a pity  his  lords! j ip, 
who  was  so  good,  and  so  affable,  should  remain  in  ignorance  of 
every  thing,  that  Miss  Amanda  was  not  what  she  appeared  to  be ; no, 
if  the  truth  was  told,  not  the  person  she  passed  for  at  all ; “ but  lort, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

sho  would  never  forgive  me,”  cried  the  nurse,  “ if  your  lortship  told 
her,  it  was  from  me  your  lortship  heard  this.  Poor  tear  thing,  she 
is  very  unwilling  to  have  her  situation  known,  though  she  is  not  the 
first  poty  who  has  met  with  a pad  man ; and  shame  and  sorrow  be 
upon  him,  who  tistrest  herself  and  her  father.” 

Lord  Mortimer  had  heard  enough;  every  doubt,  every  suspicion 
was  realized ; and  he  was  equally  unable  and  unwilling  to  inquire 
further.  It  was  plain  Amanda  was  unworthy  of  his  esteem : and  to 
- inquire  into  the  circumstances  which  occasioned  that  unworthiness, 
would  only  have  tortured  him.  He  rung  the  bell  abruptly,  and 
ordering  Mrs.  Abergwilly  to  attend  the  Edwins,  withdrew  immedi- 
ately to  another  room.  Now  was  there  an  opportunity  for  Lord 
Mortimer  to  break  with  Amanda,  without  the  smallest  imputation  on 
his  honour.  Did  it  give  him  pleasure?  No:  it  filled  him  With 
sorrow,  disappointment,  and  anguish;  the  softness  of  her  manners 
even  more  than  the  beauty  of  her  person,  had  fascinated  his  soul,  and 
made  him  determine,  if  he  found  her  worthy  (of  which  indeed  he  had 
then  but  little  doubt,)  to  cease  not,  till  every  obstacle  which  could 
impede  their  union  should  be  overcome.  He  was  inspired  with 
indignation  at  the  idea  of  a snare  he  imagined  she  had  laid  for  him, 
thinking  his  modesty  all  a pretext  for  drawing  him  into  making 
honourable  proposals.  As  she  sunk  in  his  esteem,  her  charms 
lessened  in  his  fancy ; and  he  thought  it  would  be  a proper  punish- 
ment for  her,  and  a noble  triumph  over  himself,  if  he  conquered,  or 
at  least,  resisted  his  passion,  and  forsook  her  entirely.  Full  of  this 
idea,  and  influenced  by  resentment  for  her  supposed  deceit,  he 
resolved,  without  longer  delay,  to  fulfil  the  purpose  which  brought 
him  into  Wales,  namely,  visiting  his  friend;  but  how  frail  is  resolu- 
tion and  resentment,  when  opposed  by  tenderness ! without  suffering 
himself  to  believe  there  was  the  least  abatement  of  either  in  his  mind, 
he  forbid  the  carriage,  in  a few  minutes  after  he  had  ordered  it, 
merely,  he  persuaded  himself,  for  the  purpose  of  yet  more  severely 
mortifying  Amanda ; as  his  continuing  a little  longer  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, without  noticing  her,  might,  perhaps,  convince  her,  she 
was  not  quite  so  fascinating  as  she  believed  herself  to  be.  From  the 
time  his  residence  at  Tudor  Hall  was  known,  he  had  received  constant 
invitations  from  the  surrounding  families,  which,  on  Amanda’s 
account,  he  uniformly  declined:  lliis  he  resolved  sliould  no  longer  be 


CKI^^DREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


67 


the  case ; some  were  yet  unanswered,  and  these  he  meant  to  accept, 
as  means  indeed  of  keeping  him  steady  in  his  resolution  of  not  seeing 
her,  and  banishing  her,  in  some  degree,  from  his  thoughts.  But  he 
could  not  have  fixed  on  a worse  method  than  this,  for  efiecting  either 
of  his  purposes : the  society  he  now  mixed  among  was  so  diflferent 
from  that  he  had  lately  been  accustomed  to,  that  he  was  continually 
employed  in  drawing  comparisons  between  them ; he  gi*ew  restless ; 
his  unhappiness  increased : and  he  at  last  felt,  that,  if  he  desired  to 
experience  any  comfort,  he  must  no  longer  absent  himself  from 
Amanda ; and  also  that,  if  she  refused  to  accede  to  the  only  proposals 
now  in  his  power  to  make  her,  he  would  be  miserablo : so  essential 
did  he  deem  her  society  to  his  happiness ; so  much  was  he  attached, 
from  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  her  manners.  At  the  same  time  he 
finally  determined  to  see  her  again,  he  was  in  a large  party  at  a Welsh 
baronet’s,  where  he  had  dined ; and,  on  the  rack  of  impatience  to 
put  his  determination  in  practice,  he  retired  early,  and  took  the  road 
to  the  cottage. 

Poor  Amanda,  during  this  time,  was  a prey  to  disquiet ; the  first 
day  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  absence,  she  felt  a little  uneasiness,  but 
strove  to  dissipate  it  by  thinking  business  had  detained  him.  The 
next  morning  she  remained  entirely  at  home,  every  moment  expect- 
ing to  behold  him ; but  this  expectation  was  totally  destroyed,  when 
from  the  outside  room  she  heard  one  of  the  nurse’s  sons  tell  of  all  the 
company  he  met  going  to  Sir  Lewis  ap  Shenkin’s,  and  amongst  the 
rest  Lord  Mortimer,  whose  servants  had  told  him  the  day  before 
their  lord  dined  at  Mr.  Jones’,  where  there  were  a deal  of  company, 
and  a great  ball  in  the  evening.  Amanda’s  heart  almost  died  within 
her  at  these  words ; pleasure,  then,  not  business,  had  prevented  Lord 
Mortimer  from  coming  to  her ; these  amusements,  which  he  had  so 
often  declared  were  tasteless  to  him,  from  the  superior  delight  he 
experienced  in  her  society.  Either  he  was  insincere  in  such  expres- 
sions, or  had  now  grown  indifferent.  She  condemned  herself  for 
ever  having  permitted  his  visits  or  received  his  assiduities;  she 
reproached  him  for  ever  having  paid  those  assiduities,  knowing,  as 
Lo  must,  the  insincerity  or  inconstancy  of  his  nature.  In  spite  of 
wounded  pride,  tears  of  sorrow  and  disappointment  burst  fi*om  her ; 
and  her  only  consolation  was  that  no  one  observed  her.  Her  hours 
]iassed  away  heavily;  she  could  not  attend  to  anything,  and  in  the 


68 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


evening  walked  t ut,  to  indulge,  in  a lonely  ramble,  tbe  dejection  of 
her  heart;  she  turned  from  Tudor  Ilall,  and  took  (without  knowing 
it  indeed)  the  very  road  which  led  to  the  house  where  Lord  Mortimer 
had  dined.  With  slow  and  pensive  steps  she  pursued  her  way, 
regardless  of  all  around  her,  till  an  approaching  footstep  made  her 
raise  her  eyes,  and  she  beheld,  with  equal  surprise  and  confusion,  the 
very  object  who  was  then  employing  her  thoughts.  Obeying  the 
impulse  of  pride,  she  hastily  turned  away,  till  recollecting  that  her 
precipitately  avoiding  him  would  at  once  betray  her  sentiments,  she 
paused  to  listen  to  his  passionate  inquiries  after  her  health : having 
answered  them  with  involuntary  coldness,  she  again  moved  on;  but 
her  progress  was  soon  stopped  by  Lord  Mortimer;  snatching  her 
hand,  he  insisted  on  knowing  why  she  appeared  so  desirous  to  av^oid 
him.  Amanda  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  desired  he  would  let  her 
go.  “Kever,”  he  exclaimed,  “till  you  wear  another  face  to  me. 

Oh  1 did  you  know  the  pain  I have  suffered  since  last  we  met,  you 
would  from  pity,  I am  sure,  treat  me  with,  less  coldness.”  Amanda’s 
heart  throbbed  wdth  sudden  pleasure;  but  she  soon  silenced  its  emo- 
tion, by  reflecting  that  a declaration  of  uneasiness,  at  the  very  time 
he  was  entering  into  gaiety,  had  something  too  inconsistent  in  it  to 
merit  credit.  Hurt  by  supposing  he  wanted  to  impose  on  her,  she 
made  yet  more  violent  efforts  to  disengage  her  hand ; but  Lord  Mor- 
timer held  it  too  firmly  for  her  to  be  successful ; he  saw  she  was 
offended,  and  it  gave  him  flattering  ideas  of  the  estimation  in  which 
he  stood  with  hei’,  since  to  resent  his  neglect  was  the  most  convinc- 
ing proof  he  could  receive  of  the  value  she  set  upon  his  attention. 
Without  hurting  her  feelings  by  a hint,  that  he  believed  the  alteration 
in  her  manner  occasioned  by  his  absence,  in’  indirect  terms  he  apolo- 
gized for  it,  saying,  what  indeed  was  partly  true,  that  a letter  lately 
received  had  so  ruffled  his  mind,  he  was  quite  unfit  for  her  society, 
and  had  therefore  availed  himself  of  those  hours  of  chagrin  and 
uneasiness  to  accept  invitations,  which  at  some  time  or  other  he 
must  have  done,  to  avoid  giving  offence,  and,  by  acting  as  he  had  % 
done,  he  reserved  the  precious  moments  of  returning  tranquillity  for 
her  he  adored.  Ah ! how  readily  do  we  receive  any  apology,  do  we 
admit  of  any  excuse  that  comes  from  a beloved  object!  Amanda  felt 
as  if  a weight  was  suddenly  removed  from  her  heart : her  eyes  were 
no  longer  bent  to  the  earth,  her  cheek  no  longer  pale;  and  a smile, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


69 


the  smile  of  innocence  and  love,  enlivened  all  her  features.  She 
seemed  suddenly  to  forget  her  hand  was  detained  by  Lord  Mortimer, 
for  no  longer  did  she  attempt  to  free  it ; she  suffered  him  gently  to 
draw  it  within  his,  and  lead  her  to  the  favourite  haunt  in  Tudor 
Grove. 

Pleased,  yet  blushing  and  confused,  she  heard  Lord  Mortimer,  with 
more  energy  than  he  had  ever  yet  expressed  himself  with,  declare 
the  pain  he  suffered  the  days  he  saw  her  not.  From  his  ardent — his 
passionate  expressions,  what  could  the  innocent  Amanda  infer,  but 
that  he  intended,  by  uniting  his  destiny  to  hers,  to  secure  to  himself 
a society  he  so  highly  valued  ? What  could  she  infer,  but  that  he 
meant  immediately  to  speak  in  explicit  terms?  The  idea  was  too 
pleasing  to  be  received  in  tranquillity,  and  her  whole  soul  felt 
agitated.  While  they  pursued  tlieir  way  through  Tudor  Grove,  the 
sky  which  had  been  lowering  the  whole  day,  became  suddenly  more 
darkened,  and  by  its  increasing  gloom  foretold  an  approaching  storm. 
Lord  Mortimer  no  longer  opposed  Amanda’s  returning  home;  but 
scarcely  had  they  turned  for  that  purpose,  ere  the  vivid  lightning 
flashed  across  their  path,  and  the  thunder  was  awfully  reverberated 
amongst  the  hills. 

The  Hall  was  much  nearer  than  the  cottage,  and  Lord  Mortimer, 
throwing  his  arm  around  Amanda’s  waist,  hurried  her  to  it ; but  ere 
they  reached  the  library,  whose  door  was  the  first  they  came  to,  the 
rain  began  pouring  with  violence.  Lord  Mortimer  snatched  off 
Amanda’s  wet  hat  and  cloak  (the  rest  of  her  clothes  were  quite  dry,) 
and  immediately  ordered  tea  and  coftee,  as  she  refused  any  other 
refreshment;  he^ dismissed  the  attendants,  that  he  might,  without 
observation  or  restraint,  enjoy  her  society.  As  she  presided  at  the 
tea-table,  his  eyes,  with  the  fondest  rapture,  were  fastened  on  her 
face,  which  never  had  appeared  more  lovely : exercise  had  heightened 
the  pale  tint  of  her  cheek,  over  which  her  glossy  hair  curled  in  beau- 
tiful disorder ; the  unusual  glow  gave  a greater  radiance  to  her  eyes, 
whose  soft  confusion  denoted  the  pleasure  she  experienced  from  the 
attentions  of  Lord  Mortimer. 

He  restrained  not,  he  could  not  restrain  the  feelings  of  his  soul. 
"*Oh  what  happiness!”  he  exclaimed.  *‘Ho  wonder  I found  all 
Bociety  tasteless  after  having  experienced  yours.  Where  could  I find 
6uch  Boftness,  yet  such  sensibility ; such  sweetness,  yet  such  arJma- 


70 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


tion ; such  beauty,  yet  such  apparent  unconsciousness  of  it.  Oh,  niy 
Amanda,  smoothly  must  tnat  life  glide  on  whose  destiny  you  shall 
share.”  Amanda  endeavoured  to  check  these  transports,  yet  secretly 
they  filled  her  with  delight,  for  she  regarded  them  as  the  sincere 
effusions  of  honorable  love.  Present  happiness,  however,  could  not 
render  her  forgetful  of  prooriety;  by  the  time  tea  was  over,  the 
evening  began  to  clear,  and  she  protested  she  must  depart;  Lord 
ifortimer  protested  against  this  for  some  time  longer,  and  at  last 
brought  her  to  the  window,  to  convince  her  there  was  still  a slight 
rain  falling.  He  promised  to  see  her  home  as  soon  as  it  was  over, 
and  entreated,  in  the  mean  time,  she  would  gratify  him  with  a song. 
Amanda  did  not  refuse ; but  the  raptures  he  expressed  while  singing, 
she  thought  too  violent,  and  rose  from  the  piano  when  she  had  con- 
cluded, in  spite  of  his  entreaties  to  the  contrary.  She  insisted  on 
getting  her  hat  and  cloak,  which  had  been  sent  to  Mrs.  Abergwilly 
to  dry ; Lord  Mortimer  at  last  reluctantly  went  out  to  obey  her. 

Amanda  walked  to  the  window ; the  prospect  from  it  was  lovely ; 
the  evening  was  now  perfectly  serene,  a few  light  clouds  alone  floated 
in  the  sky,  their  lucid  skirts  tinged  with  purple  rays  from  the  decli- 
ning sun ; the  trees  wore  a brighter  green,  and  the  dew-drop  that  had 
heightened  their  verdure,  yet  glittered  on  their  sprays ; across  a 
distant  valley  was  extended  a beautiful  rainbow,  the  sacred  record 
of  Heaven’s  covenant  with  man.  All  nature  appeared  revived  and 
animated  ; the  birds  now  warbled  their  closing  lays,  and  the  bleating 
of  the  cattle  was  heard  from  the  neighbouring  hills.  “ Oh ! how  sweet, 
how  lovely  is  the  dewy  landscape!”  exclaimed  Amanda,  with  that 
delight  which  scenes  of  calm  and  vernal  nature  never  fail  of  raising 
in  minds  of  piety  and  tenderness. 

’Tis  lovely  indeed,”  repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  who  returned  at  the 
moment,  assuring  her  the  things  would  be  sent  in  directly.  ‘‘  I 
admire  the  prospect,”  continued  he,  “ because  you  gaze  upon  it  with 
me;  were  you  absent,  like  every  other  charm,  it  would  lose  its 
beauty,  and  become  tasteless  to  me.  Tell  me,”  cried  he,  gently  encir- 
cling her  waist,  “ why  this  hurry,  why  this  wish  to  leave  me  ? Do 
you  expect  elsewhere  to  meet  with  a being,  who  will  value  your 
society  more  highly  than  I do  ? Do  you  expect  to  meet  with  a heart 
more  fondly,  more  firmly  attached  to  you  than  mine?  Oh,  my 
Amanda,  if  you  do,  how  mistaken  are  such  expectations!” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


•71 


Amanda  blushed,  and  averted  her  head,  unable  to  speak 

“Ah,  why,”  continued  he,  pursuing  her  averted  eyes  witri  his^ 
^ should  we  create  uneasiness  to  ourselves,  by  again  separating  \ ” 

Amanda  looked  up  at  these  words,  with  involuntary  surprise  in  her 
countenance.  Lord  Mortimer  understood  it : he  saw  she  had  hitherto 
deluded  herself  with  thinking  his  intentions  towards  her  very  differ- 
ent from  what  they  really  were ; to  suffer  her  longer  to  deceive  her- 
self, would,  he  thought,  be  cruelty.  Straining  her  to  his  beating 
heart,  he  imprinted  a kiss  on  her  tremulous  lips,  and  softly  told  her, 
that  the  life  which  without  her  would  lose  half  its  charms,  should  b« 
devoted  to  her  service ; and  that  his  fortune,  like  his  heart,  should 
be  in  her  possession.  Trembling,  while  she  struggled  to  free  herself 
from  his  arms,  Amanda  demanded  what  he  meant:  her  manner  sonio- 
what  surprised  and  confused  him:  but,  recollecting  that  this  was  tha 
moment  for  explanation,  he,  though  with  half  averted  eyes,  declared 
his  hopes,  his  wishes,  and  intentions.  Surprise,  horror,  and  indigna  ■ 
tion,  for  a few  minutes  overpowered  Amanda ; but,  suddenly  recover- 
ing her  scattered  senses,  with  a strength  greater  than  she  had  ever 
before  felt,  she  burst  from  him,  and  attempted  to  rush  from  the  room. 
Lord  Mortimer  caught  hold  of  her;  “Whither  are  you  going, 
Amanda?”  exclaimed  he,  affrighted  by  her  manner. 

“From  the  basest  of  men,”  cried  she,  struggling  to  disengage 
herself. 

He  shut  the  door,  and  forced  her  back  to  a chair ; he  was  shocked, 
amazed,  and  confounded  by  her  looks : no  art  could  have  assumed 
such  a semblance  of  sorrow  as  she  now  wore ; no  feelings,  but  those 
of  the  most  delicate  nature,  have  expressed  such  emotion  as  she  now 
betrayed:  the  enlivening  bloom  of  her  cheeks  was  fled,  and 
succeeded  by  a deadly  paleness : and  her  soft  eyes,  robbed  of  their 
lustre,  were  bent  to  the  ground  with  the  deepest  expression  of  wo. 
Lord  Mortimer  began  to  think  he  had  mistaken,  if  not  her  character, 
her  disposition;  and  the  idea  of  having  insulted  either  purity  or 
penitence  was  like  a dagger  to  his  heart.  “Oh,  my  love  I”  he 
exclaimed,  laying  his  hand  on  her  trembling  one,  “ what  do  you  mean 
by  departing  so  abruptly  ?” 

“My  meaning,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  rising,  and  shaking  his  hand 
from  hers,  “ is  now  as  obvious  as  your  own:  I seek  forever  to  quit  a 
man  who,  under  the  appearance  of  delicate  attention,  meditated  so 


72 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


base  a scheme  against  me.  My  credulity  may  have  yielded  you 
amusement,  but  it  has  afforded  you  no  triumph:  the  tenderness 
which  I know  you  think,  which  I shall  not  deny  you  have  inspired 
me  with,  as  it  was  excited  by  imaginary  virtues,  so  it  vanishes  with 
the  illusion  which  gave  it  birth:  what  then  was  innocent,  would 
now  be  guilty.  Oh  heavens !”  continued  Amanda,  clasping  her  hands 
together,  in  a sudden  agony  of  tears,  “ is  it  me,  the  helpless  child  of 
sorrow.  Lord  Mortimer  sought  as  a victim  to  illicit  love ! Is  it  the  son 
of  Lord  Cherhury  destined  such  a blow  against  the  unfortunate 
Fitzalan !” 

Lord  Mortimer  started.  ‘‘  Fitzalan  I”  repeated  he.  “ Oh  I 
Amanda,  why  did  you  conceal  your  real  name  ? and  what  am  I to 
infer  from  your  having  done  so  ?” 

“ What  you  please,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  “ the  opinion  of  a person 
I despise  can  be  of  little  consequence  to  me.  Yet,”  continued  she, 
as  if  suddenly  recollecting  herself,  “ that  you  may  have  no  plea  for 
extenuating  your  conduct,  know  that  my  name  was  concealed  by  the 
desire  of  my  father,  who,  involved  in  unexpected  distress,  wished 
me  to  adopt  another,  till  his  affairs  were  settled.” 

“ This  concealment  has  undone  me,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer ; it 
has  led  me  into  an  error  I shall  never  cease  repenting.  Oh  I 
Amanda,  deign  to  listen  to  the  circumstances  which  occasioned  this 
error,  and  you  will  then,  I am  sure,  think  me  at  least  less  culpable 
than  I now  appear  to  be ; you  will  then  perhaps  allow  me  to  make 
some  atonement.” 

“Fo,  my  lord,”  cried  Amanda,  ‘^willingly  I will  not  allow 
myself  to  be  deceived;  for,  without  deceit,  I am  convinced  you 
could  mention  no  circumstance  which  could  possibly  palliate  your 
conduct,  or  what  you  so  gently  term  an  error. 

“ Had  I,  my  lord,  by  art  or  coquetry,  sought  to  attract  your  notice, 
your  crime  would  have  been  palliated;  but  when  you  pursued,  I 
retired ; and  the  knowledge  of  your  being  Lord  Cherbury’s  son  first 
induced  me  to  receive  your  visits.  I suffered  their  continuance, 
because  I thought  you  amiable ; sad  mistake ! Oh  I cruel,  ungenerous 
Mortimer;  how  have  you  abused  my  unsuspecting  confidence !” 

As  she  ended  these  words,  she  moved  toward.s  the  door.  Awed 
by  her  manner,  confounded  by  her  reproaches,  tortured  by  remorse, 
and  half  offended  at  her  refusing  to  hear  his  vindication,  he  no 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


T3 

longer  attempted  to  prevent  her  quitting  the  apartment : he  followed 
her,  however,  from  it.  “ What  do  you  mean,  my  lord,”  asked  she, 
“ by  coming  after  me  ?” 

“ I mean  to  see  you  safely  home,”  replied  he,  in  a tone  of  proud 
sullenness. 

‘^And  L it  Lord  Mortimer,”  said  she,  looking  steadfastly  in  hi# 
face,  “ pretends  to  see  me  safe  ?” 

He  stamped,  struck  his  hand  violently  against  his  forehead,  and 
exclaimed,  “I  see — I see — I am  despicable  in  your  eyes;  but, 
Amanda,  I cannot  endure  your  reproaches.  Pause  for  a few  minutes, 
and  you  will  find  I am  not  so  deserving  of  them  as  you  imagine.” 

She  made  no  reply,  but  quickened  her  pace : within  a few  yards  of 
the  cottage.  Lord  Mortimer  caught  her  with  a distracted  air. 
“ Amanda,”  said  he,  “ I cannot  bear  to  part  with  you  in  this  manner ; 
you  think  me  the  veriest  villain  on  earth ; you  will  drive  me  from 
your  heart ; I shall  become  abhorrent  to  you,” 

“ Most  assuredly,  my  lord,”  replied  she,  in  a solemn  voice. 

Cannot  compunction  then  extenuate  my  error  ?” 

“ ’Tis  not  compunction,  ’tis  regret  you  feel,  for  finding  your  designs 
unsuccessful.” 

“ Ho : by  all  that  is  sacred,  ’tis  remorse,  for  ever  having  meditated 
such  an  injury.  Yet,  I again  repeat,  if  you  listen  to  me,  you  will 
find  I am  not  so  culpable  as  you  believe.  Oh  I let  me  beseech  you 
to  do  so : let  me  hope  that  my  life  may  be  devoted  to  you  alone,  and 
that  I may  thus  have  the  opportunity  of  apologizing  for  my  conduct. 
Oh ! dearest  Amanda,”  kneeling  before  her,  ‘‘  drive  me  not  from  you 
in  the  hour  of  penitence.” 

“You  plead  in  vain,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  breaking  from  him. 

He  started  in  an  agony  from  he  ground,  and  again  seized  her. 
“Is  it  thus,”  he  exclaimed,  “with  such  unfeeling  coldness  I am 
abandoned  by  Amanda?  I will  leave  you,  if  you  only  say  I am  not 
detested  by  you;  if  you  only  say  the  remembrance  of  the  sweet 
hours  we  have  spent  together  will  not  become  hateful  to  you.” 

He  was  pale,  and  trembled;  a tear  wet  his  cheek. — Amanda’s 
began  to  flow.  She  averted  her  head,  to  hide  her  emotion ; but  ho 
had  perceived  it. 

“You  weep,  my  Amanda,”  said  he,  “and  you  feel  the  influence  of 
pity!” 


4 


74 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


No,  no,”  cried  she,  in  a tone  scarcely  articulate. 

‘‘  I will  acknowledge,”  continued  she,  “ I believe  you  possessed  of 
sensibility ; and  an  anticipation  of  the  painful  feelings  it  will  excite, 
on  the  reflection  of  your  conduct  to  me,  now  stops  ray  further 
reproaches.  Ah  I my  lord,  timely  profit  by  mental  correction,  nor 
ever  again  encourage  a passion,  which  virtue  cannot  sanction,  or 
reason  justify.” 

So  spake  the  cherub;  and  the  grave  rebuke 
Severe  iu  youthful  beauty,  added  grace 
Invincible. 

Amanda  darted  from  Lord  Mortimer;  and,  entering  the  cottage, 
hastily  closed  the  door.  Her  looks  terrified  the  nurse,  Who  was  the 
only  one  of  the  family  up,  and  who,  by  means  of  one  of  her  sons,  had 
discovered  that  Amanda  had  taken  refuge  from  the  thunder-storm  in 
Tudor  Hall. 

Amanda  had  neither  hat  nor  cloak  on ; her  face  was  pale  as  death ; 
her  hair,  blown  by  the  wind  and  wet  from  the  rain,  hung  dishevelled 
about  her ; and  to  the  inquiries  of  the  nurse,  could  only  answer  by 
sobs  and  tears.  “ Lackatay,”  said  the  nurse,  ‘‘  what  ails  my  sweet 
child?” 

Believed  by  tears,  Amanda  told  her  nurse  she  was  not  very  well, 
and  that  she  had  been  reflecting  on  the  great  impropriety  there  was 
in  receiving  Lord  Mortimer’s  visits,  whom  she  begged  her  nurse  (if 
he  came  again)  not  to  admit. 

The  nurse  shook  her  head,  and  said  she  supposed  there  had  been 
some  quarrel  between  them : but  if  Lord  Mortimer  had  done  any  thing 
to  vex  her  tear  chilt,  she  should  make  him  pay  for  it.  Amanda  charged 
her  never  to  address  him  on  such  a subject,  and  having  made  her 
promise  not  to  admit  him,  she  retired  to  her  chamber,  faint,  weary, 
and  distressed.  The  indignity  offered  her  by  Colonel  Belgrave  had 
insulted  her  purity,  and  offended  her  pride,  but  it  had  not  wounded 
the  softer  feelings  of  her  soul — ^it  was  Mortimer  alone  had  power  to 
work  them  up  to  agony. 

The  charm  which  had  soothed  her  sorrows  was  fled;  and,  while 
she  glowed  with  keen  resentment,  she  wept  from  disappointed  tender- 
ness. “Alas I my  father,”  she  cried,  “is  this  the  secure  retreat 
you  fondly  thought  you  had  discovered  for  me  ? Sad  mistake  I less 
had  I to  dread  from  the  audacious  front  of  vie**  than  the  insidious 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET*  * 75 

form  of  virtue : delicacy  slirinking  from  one,  immediately  announced 
the  danger;  but  innocence  inspired  confidence  in  the  other;  and 
credulity,  instead  of  suspicion,  occupied  the  mind.  Am  I doomed  to 
be  the  victim  of  deception  ? and,  except  thy  honest,  tender  heart,  ray 
father,  find  every  other  fraught  with  deceit  and  treachery  to  me? 
Alas  I if  in  the  early  season  of  youth,  perpetual  perfidy  makes  us 
relinqisli  candour  and  hope,  what  charms  can  the  world  retain  ? 
The  soul,  sickening,  recoils  within  itself,  and  no  longer  startles  at 
dissolution.  Belgrave  aimed  at  my  peace — But  Mortimer  alone  had 
power  to  pierce  the  ‘ vital,  vulnerable  heart.’  Oh ! Mortimer,  from 
you  alone  the  blow  is  severe — ^you,  who  in  divine  language  I may 
say,  wert  my  guide,  my  companion,  and  my  familiar  friend.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  noAV  a prey  to  all  the  pangs  which  an  ingenuous 
mind,  oppressed  with  a consciousness  of  error,  must  ever  feel ; the 
most  implacable  vengeance  could  not  devise  a greater  punishment  for 
him  than  his  own  thoughts  inflicted ; the  empire  of  inordinate 
passion  was  overthrown,  and  honour  and  reason  regained  their  full 
and  natural  ascendency  over  him.  When  he  reflected  on  the  uniform 
appearance  of  innocence  Amanda  had  always  worn,  he  wondered  at 
his  weakness  in  ever  having  doubted  its  reality ; at  his  audacity,  in 
ever  having  insulted  it;  when  he  reflected  on  her  melancholy,  he 
shuddered,  as  if  having  aggravated  it. 

“ Your  sorrows,  as  well  as  purity,  my  Amanda,”  he  cried,  “ should 
have  rendered  you  a sacred  object  to  me.” 

A ray  of  consolation  darted  into  his  mind,  at  the  idea  of  prevailing 
on  her  to  listen  to  the  circumstances  which  had  led  him  into  a con- 
duct so  unworthy  of  her  and  himself,  such  an  explanation,  he  trusted, 
would  regain  her  love  and  confidence,  and  make  her  accept  what  he 
meant  immediately  to  offer — ^his  hand : for  pride  and  ambition  could 
raise  no  obstacle  to  oppose  this  design  of  reparation ; his  happiness 
depended  on  its  being  accepted.  Amanda  was  dearer  to  him  than 
life,  and  hope  could  sketch  no  prospect,  in  which  she  was  not  the 
foremost  object.  Impetuous  in  his  passions,  the  lapse  of  the  hours 
was  insupportably  tedious ; and  the  idea  of  waiting  till  the  morning 
to  declare  his  penitence,  his  intention,  and  again  implore  her  forgive- 
ness, filled  him  with  agony : he  went  up  to  the  cottage,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  latch ; he  hesitated ; e 7en  from  the  rustics  he  wished 
to  conceal  his  shame  and  confusion.  All  within  and  without  the 


70  * ’CHILDRXW  OP  THE  ABBBr. 

cottage  was  still ; tlie  moon-beams  seemed  to  sleep  upon  the  tbatcb| 
and  the  trees  were  unagitated  by  a breeze. 

“Happy  rustics,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer. — “ Children  )f  con- 
tent, and  undeviating  integrity,  sleep  presses  sweetly  on  your  eyelids. 
My  Amanda  too  rests,  for  she  is  innocent.”  He  descended  to  the 
valley,  and  saw  a light  from  her  window ; he  advanced  within  a few 
yards  of  it,  and  saw  hei  plainly  walk  about  with  an  agitated  air— 
her  handkerchief  raised  to  her  eyes,  as  if  she  wept.  His  feelings  rose 
almost  to  frenzy  at  this  sight,  and  he  execrated  himself  for  being  the 
occasion  of  her  tears.  The  village  clock  struck  one.  Good  heavens, 
how  many  hours  must  intervene  ere  he  could  kneel  before  the  lovely 
mourner,  implore  her  soft  voice  to  accord  his  pardon,  and  (as  ho 
flattered  himself  would  be  the  case)  in  the  fulness  of  reconciliation, 
press  her  to  his  throbbing  heart,  as  the  sweet  partner  of  his  future 
days!  The  light  was  at  last  extinguished:  but  he  could  not  rest,  and 
continued  to  wander  about  like  a perturbed  spirit,  till  the  day  began 
to  dawn,  and  he  saw  some  early  peasants  coming  to  their  labors. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

0 let  me  now  into  a richer  soil 

Transplant  thee  safe,  where  vernal  suns  and  flowers 

Diffuse  their  warmest,  largest  influence ; 

And  of  my  garden  be  the  pride  and  joy. 

TnoMsoN. 

The  moment  he  thought  he  could  see  Amanda,  Mortimer  hastened 
to  the  cottage : the  nurse,  as  she  had  promised,  would  not  reproach 
him,  though  she  strongly  suspected  his  having  done  something  to 
oflfend  her  child:  but  her  sullen  air  declared  her  dissatisfaction. 
“ Miss  Fitzalan  was  too  ill,”  she  said,  “ to  see  company,”  (for  Lord 
Mortimer  had  inquired  for  Amanda  by  her  real  name,  detesting  the 
ane  of  Dunford,  to  which,  in  a great  degree,  he  imputed  his  unfor- 
tunate conduct  to  her.)  The  nurse  spoke  the  truth  in  saying  Amanda 
was  ill : her  agitation  was  too  much  for  her  frame,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing she  felt  so  feverish  she  would  not  rise ; she  bad  no  spirits,  indeed, 
to  attempt  it.  Sunk  to  the  lowest  ebb  of  dejection,  she  felt  solitude 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBBT*  77 

alone  oongonial  to  her  feelings.  Hitherto  the  morning  haf.  been 
patiently  expected ; for  with  Mortimer  she  enjoyed  its 

“ Cool,  its  fragrant,  and  its  silent  hour.” 

But  no  Mortimer  was  now  desired.  In  the  evening  he  mada 
another  attempt,  and,  finding  Ellen  alone,  sent  in  a supplicatory 
message  hy  her  to  Amanda.  She  was  just  risen,  and  Mrs.  Edwin  was 
making  tea  for  her : a flush  of  indignation  overspread  her  pale  face, 
on  receiving  his  message.  Tell  him,”  said  she,  I am  astonished  at 
his  request,  and  never  will  grant  it.  Let  him  seek  elsewhere  a heart 
more  like  his  own,  and  trouble  my  repose  no  more. 

He  heard  her  words,  and  in  a fit  of  passion  and  disappointment 
flew  out  of  the  house.  Howell  entered  soon  after,  and  heard  from 
Ellen  an  account  of  the  quarrel ; a secret  hope  sprung  in  his  heart  at 
this  intelligence,  and  he  desired  Ellen  to  meet  him  in  about  half  an 
hour  in  the  valley,  thinking  by  that  time  he  could  dictate  some  mes- 
sage to  send  by  her  to  Amanda. 

As  the  parson  had  never  paid  Miss  Fitzalan  any  of  those  attentions 
which  strike  a vulgar  eye,  and  had  often  laughed  and  familiarly  chat- 
with  Ellen,  she  took  it  into  her  head  he  was  an  admirer  of  hers ; and 
if  being  the  object  of  Chip’s  admiration  excited  the  envy  of  her  neigh- 
bours, how  much  would  that  increase  when  the  parson’s  predilection 
was  known.  She  set  about  adorning  herself  for  her  appointment; 
and  while  thus  employed,  the  honest,  faithful  Chip  entered,  attired  in 
his  holiday  clothes  to  escort  her  to  a little  dance.  Ellen  bridled  up  at 
the  first  intimation  of  it ; and,  delighted  with  the  message  Amanda 
had  sent  to  Lord  Mortimer,  which  in  her  opinion  was  extremely  elo- 
quent, she  resolved  now  to  imitate  it. 

“Timothy,”  said  she,  drawing  hack  her  head,  your  request  is 
the  most  improperest  that  can  he  conceived,  and  it  is  hy  no  means 
convenient  for  me  to  adhere  to  it.  I tell  you,  Tim,”  cried  she,  waving 
the  corner  of  her  white  apron,  for  white  handkerchief  she  had  not,  I 
wonder  at  your  presumptionness  in  making  it ; cease  your  flattering 
expressions  of  love ; look  out  amongst  the  inferiority  for  a heart  more 
like  your  own : and  trouble  my  pleasure  no  more.” 

Chip  paused  for  a moment,  as  if  wanting  to  comprehend  her  mean- 
ing. “ The  short  and  the  long  of  it  then,  Nell,”  said  he,  “ is,  that  yon 
and  1 are  to  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other.” 


78 


CHlLDREff^  Oy  THE  ABBEY, 


True/''  cried  his  coquettish  mistress. 

“"^ell,  well,  'N'ell,”  said  he,  half  crying,  “ the  time  may  come,  when 
you  will  renent  ever  ha  ring  served  a true-hearted  lad  in  this  manner.’' 
So  saying  he  ran  from  the  house. 

Ellen  surveyed  herself  with  great  admiration,  and  expected  nothing 
less  chan  the  immediate  offer  of  the  parson’s  hand.  She  found  him 
punctual  to  his  appointment,  and  after  walking  some  time  about  tho 
valley,  they  sat  down  together  upon  a little  bank.  ‘‘Ellen,”  said  he, 
taking  her  hand,  “ do  you  think  there  is  any  hope  for  me  ?” 

“ Kay,  now,  inteed,  Mr.  Howell,”  cried  she,  with  affected  coynessi 
••  that  is  such  a strange  question.” 

“But  the  quarrel  perhaps,”  said  he,  “may  be  made  up,” 

“Ko,  I assure  you,”  replied  she  with  quickness,  “it  was  entirely  on 
your  account  that  it  ever  took  place.” 

“Is  it  possible?”  exclaimed  he,  pleasure  sparkling  in  his  eyes, 
then  I may  reurge  my  passion.” 

“ Ah  tear  now,  Mr.  Howell,  you  are  so  very  pressing.” 

“ Do  you  think,”  asked  he,  “ she  is  to  ill  to  see  me  ?” 

“Who  too  iU?” 

“ Why,  Miss  Fitzalan.”  (For  the  moment  Ellen  knew  Lord  Morti- 
mer acquainted  with  Amanda’s  name,  she  thought  ’there  was  no 
longer  reason  for  concealing  it  from  any  one,  and  had  informed  How- 
ell of  it.) 

“Miss  Fitzalan!”  repeated  she,  starting  and  changing  colour. 

“Yes,  Ellen,  the -dear,  lovely  Miss  Fitzalan,  whom  I adore  more 
than  language  can  express,  or  imagination  can  conceive.” 

Adieu  to  Ellen’s  airy  hopes ! Her  chagrin  could  not  be  concealed, 
and  tears  burst  from  her.  The  curate  tenderly  inquired  the  cause  of 
her  emotion : though  vain,  she  was  not  artful,  and  could  not  disguise 
it. — “ Why  really  you  made  such  speeches,  I thought — and  then  you 
looked  so.  But  it  is  no  matter : I pelieve  all  men  are  teceitful.” 

From  her  tears  and  disjointed  sentences,  he  began  to  suspect  some- 
thing, and  his  gentle  mind  was  hurt  at  the  idea  of  giving  her 
pain ; anxious,  however,  to  receive  his  doom  from  Amanda,  he  again 
asked  if  she  thought  he  could  see  her.  Ellen  answered  him  snappish- 
ly, she  could  not  tell,  and  hurried  to  the  cottage,  where  a flood  of  tears 
soon  relieved  her  distress.  To  be  dressed  so  charmingly,  and  for  no 
purpose,  was  a pity:  she  therefore  resolved  Dn  going  to  the  dance, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


79 


consoling  herself  with  the  old  saying,  of  having  more  than  one  string 
to  her  bow ; and  that  if  Chip  was  not  as  genteel,  he  was  quite  as 
personable  a man  as  the  curate.  Walking  down  the  lane  she  met 
a little  boy,  who  gave  her  a letter  from  Chip.  Full  of  the  idea  of  its 
containing  some  overtures  of  reconciliation,  she  hastily  broke  it  open, 
and  read  to  the  following  effect ; 


“ Ellen,  after  your  cruelty,  I could  not  bear  to  stay  in  the  village,  as  I never  could 
work  another  stroke  with  a light  heart,  and  every  tree  and  meadow  would  remind  me  of 
the  love  my  dear  girl  once  bore  her  poor  Chip.  So,  before  this  comes  to.  hand,  I shall  be 
on  my  way  to  enter  one  of  the  king’s  ships,  and  heaven  knows  whether  we  shall  ever  meet 
again ; but  this  I know,  I shall  always  love  Ellen,  though  she  was  so  cruel  to  her  own 
faithful 

“Tim  Chip.** 

Thus  did  the  vanity  of  Ellen  receive  a speedy  punishment.  Her 
distress  for  some  days  was  unabated,  but  at  last  yielded  to  the  mild 
arguments  of  Amanda,  and  the  hopes  she  inspired  of  seeing  the  wan* 
dering  hero  again. 

Howell  at  last  obtained  an  interview,  and  ventured  to  plead  his 
passion.  Amanda  thanked  him  for  his  regard,  but  declared  her  ina- 
bility of  returning  it  as  he  wished ; assuring  him,  however,  at  the 
same  time,  of  her  sincere  friendship. 

This,  then,  shall  suffice,”  said  he.  Neither  sorrow  nor  disappoint- 
ment are  new  to  me ; and  when  they  oppress  me,  I will  turn  to  the 
idea  of  my  angel  friend,  and  forget  (for  some  moments  at  least)  my 
heavy  burthen.” 

Lord  Mortimer  made  several  attempts  for  again  seeing  Amanda, 
but  without  success ; he  then  wrote,  but  his  letters  were  not  more 
successful.  In  despair  of  finding  neither  letters  nor  messages 
received  by  Amanda,  he  at  last,  by  stratagem,  effected  an  interview : 
meeting  one  of  the  young  Edwins  returning  from  the  post-town  with 
a letter,  he  inquired,  and  heard  it  it  was  for  Miss.  Fitzalan ; a little 
persuasion  prevailed  on  the  young  man  to  relinquish  it,  and  Lord 
Mortimer  flew  directly  to  the  cottage — “ Now,”  cried  he,  “ the  inex- 
orable girl  must  appear,  if  she  wishes  to  receive  her  letter.”  The 
nurse  informed  Amanda  of  it ; but  she,  suspecting  it  to  be  a scheme, 
refused  to  appear.  ‘‘  Indeed,  I do  not  deceive  her,”  exclaimed  Lord 
Mortimer,  “ nor  will  I give  the  letter  into  any  hands  but  hers.” 

'“^This,  ray  lord,”  said  Amanda,  coming  from  her  cliaraber,  ‘‘b 


80 


CHILD  REX  OF  THE  ABBET. 


reallj  cruel ; but  give  me  the  letter,”  impatiently  stretching  out  her 
hand  for  it. 

“ Another  condition  remains  to  be  complied  'v^ith,”  cried  he,  seiz- 
ing her  soft  hand,  which  she,  however,  instantly  withdrew,  “ you 
must  read  it.  Miss  Fitzalan,  in  my  presence.” 

‘‘  Good  heavens ! how  you  torment  me !”  she  exclaimed, 

“ Do  you  comply,  then  ?” 

“ Yes,”  she  replied,  and  received  the  letter  from  him. 

The  pity  and  compunction  of  his  lordship  increased,  as  he  gazed  on 
her  pale  face,  while  her  eyes  eagerly  ran  over  the  contents  of  a letter, 
which  was  as  follows : 

TO  MISS  FITZALAK. 

“ To  be  able  to  communicate  pleasure  to  my  Amanda,  rewards  me  for  tedious  months 
of  wretchedness — Dry  up  your  tears,  sweet  child  of  early  sorrow ; for  the  source  of  grief 
exists  no  longer.  Lord  Cherbury  has  been  kind  beyond  my  warmest  expectations,  and 
has  given  me  the  ineffable  delight,  as  far  as  pecuniary  matters  can  do,  of  rendering  the 
future  days  of  Amanda  happy.  In  my  next  I can  be  more  explicit.  At  present  I have  not 
a moment  I can  call  my  own,  which  must  excuse  this  laconic  letter.  The  faithful  Edwins 
will  regoice  in  the  renewed  fortune  of  their  dear  Amanda’s  affectionate  father, 

“Augustus  Fitzalam. 

“ Jermyn  Street  dbc,  cfco.” 

The  emotions  of  Amanda  were  irrepressible;  the  letter  dropped 
from  her  trembling  hands,  and  her  streaming  eyes  were  raised  to 
heaven,  “ Oh,  bless  him,”  she  exclaimed ; ‘‘  gracious  heaven,  bless 
the  benefactor  of  my  father,  for  this  good  deed.  May  sorrow  nor 
misfortune  ever  come  across  his  path.” 

“ And  who,  may  I ask,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “ merits  so  sweet  a 
prayer  from  Amanda?” 

“See,”  cried  she,  presenting  him  the  letter,  as  if  happy  at  the 
moment  to  have  such  a proof  of  the  truth  of  what  she  had  alleged  to 
him. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  affected  by  the  letter : his  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  he  turned  aside  to  hide  his  emotion : recovering  himself,  he  again 
approached  her.  “ And  while  you  so  sweetly  pray  for  the  felicity  of 
the  father,”  said  he,  “are  you  resolved  upon  dooming  the  son  tc 
despair  ? If  sincere  repentance  can  extenuate  error,  and  merit  mercy, 
I deserve  to  be  forgiven.” 

Amanda  rose,  as  if  with  an  intention  of  retiring:  but  liOrd  Moru- 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


81 


mer  caught  her  hand.  “ Think  not,”  cried  he,  “ I will  lose  the  present 
opportunity  (which  I have  so  long  desired,  and  with  such  difficulty 
obtained)  of  entering  into  a vindication  of  my  conduct : however  it 
may  be  received  by  you,  it  is  a justice  I owe  my  own  character  to 
make ; for  as  I never  wilfully  injured  innocence,  so  I cannot  bear  to 
be  considered  its  violator.  Amidst  the  wildness,  the  extravagance  of 
youth,  Tvhich  wdth  compunction  I acknowledge  being  too  often  led 
into,  my  heart  still  acquitted  me  of  ever  committing  an  act  which 
could  entail  upon  me  the  pangs  of  conscience.  Sacred  to  me  has 
virtue  ever  been,  how  lowly  soever  in  situation.” 

The  idea  of  his  being  able  to  vindicate  himself  scarcely  afforded 
less  pleasure  to  Amanda,  than  it  did  to  Lord  Mortimer.  She  suffered 
him  to  reseat  her,  while  he  related  the  circumstances  which  had  led 
him  astray  in  his  opinion  of  her.  Oh  ! how  fervent  was  the  rapture 
that  pervaded  Amanda’s  heart  when,  as  she  listened  to  him,  she 
found  he  was  still  the  amiable,  the  noble,  the  generous  character  her 
fancy  had  first  conceived  him  to  be ! Tears  of  pleasure,  as  exquisite 
as  those  she  had  lately  shed,  again  fell  from  her ; for  oh ! what  delight 
is  there  in  knowing,  that  an  object  we  cannot  help  loving  we  may 
still  esteem  I “ Thus,”  continued  Lord  Mortimer,  “ I have  accounted 
for  my  error ; an  error  which,  except  on  account  of  your  displeasure, 
I know  not  whether  I should  regret ; as  it  has  convinced  me,  more 
forcibly  than  any  other  circumstance  could  have  done,  of  the  perfec- 
tions of  your  mind ; and  has,  besides,  removed  from  mine,  prejudices 
which,  not  without  cause,  I entertained  against  your  sex.  Were 
every  woman  in  a similiar  situation  to  act  like  you, 

Such  numbers  would  not  in  rain, 

Of  broken  vows  and  faithless  men  complain. 

“ To  call  you  mine  is  the  height  of  my  wishes : on  your  decision  i 
rest  for  happiness.  O I my  Amanda,  let  it  be  a favourable  decision, 
and  suffer  me  to  write  to  Mr.  Fitzalan,  and  request  him  to  bestow  on 
me  the  greatest  pleasure  one  being  can  possibly  receive  from  another, 
a woman  lovely,  and  educated  as  yon  have  been.” 

When  he  mentioned  appealing  to  her  father,  Amanda  could  no 
longer  doubt  the  sincerity  of  his  intentions.  Her  own  heart  pleaded 
as  powerfully  as  his  solicitations  did  for  pardoning  him ; and  if  she 
did  not  absolutely  extend  her  hand,  she  at  least  suffered  it  to  be  taken 

4* 


82 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


without  any  reluctance.  “ I am  forgiven  then,”  said  Lord  Mortimer, 
pressing  her  to  his  bosom.  “ Oh,  my  Amanda,  years  of  tender 
attention  can  never  make  up  for  this  goodness.” 

When  his  transports  were  a little  abated,  he  insisted  on  writing 
immediately  to  Fitzalan : as  he  sealed  the  letter,  he  told  Amanda  ho 
had  requested  an  expeditious  answer.  The  happiness  of  the  youthful 
pair  was  communicated  to  the  honest  rustics,  whom  Lord  Mortimer 
liberally  rewarded  for  their  fidelity  to  his  Amanda,  and  whom  she 
readily  excused  for  their  ambiguous  expressions  to  him,  knowing  they 
proceeded  from  simplicity  of  heart,  and  a wish  of  serving  her,  yet 
without  injuring  themselves,  by  betraying  the  manner  in  which  they 
procured  intelligence  of  her  situation. 

The  day  after  the  reconciliation.  Lord  Mortimer  told  Amanda  he 
was  compelled  for  a short  time  to  leave  her ; with  what  reluctance, 
he  hoped,  she  could  easily  perceive ; but  the  visit  he  had  come  into 
Wales  for  the  purpose  of  paying,  had  been  so  long  deferred,  his  friend 
was  growing  impatient,  and  threatened  to  come  to  Tudor  Hall  to  see 
what  detained  him  there.  To  prevent  such  a measure,  which  he 
knew  would  be  a total  interruption  to  the  happiness  he  enjoyed  in  her 
society.  Lord  Mortimer  added,  he  intended  to  pass  a few  days  with 
him ; hoping  by  the  time  he  returned,  there  would  be  a letter  from 
Mr.  Fitzalan,  which  would  authorize  his  immediate  preparations  for 
their  nuptials.  Amanda  wished  (but  was  unable)  totally  to  hide  the 
uneasiness  she  felt  at  the  prospect  of  a separation : the  idea,  however, 
of  his  speedy  return  rendered  it  but  transient,  and  he  departed  in  a 
few  hours  after  he  had  mentioned  his  intention. 

Amanda  had  never  before  experienced  such  happiness  as  she  now 
enjoyed : she  now  saw  herself  on  the  point  of  being  elevated  to  a 
situation  (by  a man  too  she  adored,)  which  would  give  her  ample 
opportnuities  of  serving  the  dearest  connections  of  her  heart,  and  of 
gratifying  the  benevolence  of  her  disposition,  and  the  elegance  of  her 
taste. 

Oh!  how  delightful  to  think  the  should  be  able  to  soothe  the 
declining  period  of  her  father’s  life,  by  providing  for  him  all  the 
requisite  indulgences  of  age  I oh ! how  delightful  to  think  she  should 
be  accessary  to  her  dear  Oscar’s  promotion  1 how  rapturous  to 
imagine,  at  her  approach  the  drooping  children  of  misery  would 
brighten  with  pleasing  presages  of  relief,  which  she  would  ajnply 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


83 


realize ! Such  were  Amanda’s  anticipations  of  what  she  termed  the 
blessings  of  an  affluent  fortune:  felicity,  in  her  opinion,  was  to  bo 
diffused  to  be  enjoyed.  Of  Lord  Cherbury’s  sanction  to  the  attach- 
ment of  his  son,  she  entertained  not  a doubt ; her  birth  was  littlo 
inferior  to  his,  and  fortune  was  entirely  out  of  the  question ; for  a 
liberal  mind,  she  thought,  could  never  look  to  that,  when  on  one  side 
was  already  possessed  more  than  sufficient  for  even  the  luxuries  of 
life.  Such  were  the  ideas  of  the  innocent  and  romantic  Amanda ; 
ideas,  which  made  her  seem  to  tread  on  air,  and  which  she  entertained 
tili  subsequent  experience  convinced  her  of  their  fallacy. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Alas  I the  story  melts  away  my  soul  I 
That  best  of  fathers,  how  shall  I discharge 
The  gratitude  and  duty  which  I owe  him? 

By  laying  up  his  counsels  in  your  heart. 

Cato. 

Amanda  was  sitting  in  the  recess  in  the  garden,  the  fourth  evening 
of  Lord  Mortimer's  absence,  when  suddenly  she  heard  the  rattling  of 
a carriage ; her  heart  bounded,  and  she  flew  into  the  house  ; at  the 
very  moment  a chaise  stopped  at  the  door,  from  which,  to  her  inex- 
pressible amazement,  her  father  descended. 

Transfixed  to  the  spot,  it  was  many  minutes  ere  she  had  power  to 
bid  him  welcome,  or  return  the  fond  caresses  he  bestowed  upon  her. 

I am  come,  Amanda,"  said  he,  eagerly  interrupting  the  joyful 
speeches  of  the  Edwins,  “ to  take  you  away  with  me ; and  one  hour 
is  all  I can  give  you  to  prepare  yourself." 

, “ Good  Heaven  I " said  Amanda,  starting,  **  to  take  me  away  imme- 
diately ? " 

“Immediately,"  he  repeated,  “and  as  I know  you  are  attached  to 
this  good  girl,"  (turning  to  Ellen,)  “ I shall  be  happy,  if  her  parents 
p^^rmit,  to  procure  her  attendance  for  you." 

The  Edwins,  who  would  have  followed  themselves,  or  allowed  any 
of  their  family  to  follow  Fitzalan  and  his  daughter  round  the  world, 


84 


CHILD  Jl  BN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


gladij  opuseutcd  to  her  going ; and  tlie  girl,  exclusive  of  her  aitacli- 
ment  to  Amanda,  -which  was  very  great,  having  pined  ever  since  her 
lover’s  departure,  rejoiced  at  the  idea  of  a change  of  scene. 

Not  so  Amanda ; it  made  her  suffer  agony ; to  be  torn  from  Lord 
Mortimer  in  the  hour  of  reconciliation  and  explanation,  was  more 
than  she  could  support  with  fortitude.  Her  father,  perhaps,  had  not 
received  his  letter ; but  it  was  but  j ustice  then  to  him  and  Lord  Morti- 
mer to  reveal  her  situation.  She  left  her  trunk  half-packed,  and  went 
out  for  that  purpose;  but  as  she  stood  before  him  with  quivering  lij>3 
and  half-avertea  eyes,  at  a loss  to  begin,  he  took  her  hand,  and  softly 
exclaimed,  ‘^My  love,  let  us  for  the  present  wave  every  subject;  the 
moments  are*precious,  hasten  to  put  on  your  habit,  or  we  shall  bo 
too  late  at  the  stage  where  I propose  resting  to  night.”  Amanda 
turned  in  silence  to  her  chamber  to  comply  with  the  desire;  tears 
ran  down  her  cheeks,  and  for  the  first  time  she  conceived  the  idea  of 
being  hurried  away  to  avoid  Lord  Mortimer ; but  why,  she  could  not 
think.  Honour  as  well  as  tenderness,  she  thought,  demanded  her 
acquainting  him  with  the  cause  of  her  precipitate  journey : but  when 
she  took  up  a pen  for  that  purpose,  her  hand  was  unsteady,  and  slie 
was  so  much  disturbed  by  the  nurse  and  her  daughters,  who  lan 
backwards  and  forwards  in  all  the  bustle  of  preparation,  that  she 
could  not  write : her  father  prevented  a second  effort,  for  he  was  con- 
tinually coming  to  her  chamber  door,  urging  her  to  be  quick,  and, 
by  thus  watching,  completely  prevented  her  delivering  any  message 
to  the  nurse  for  Lord  Mortimer ; so  great  was  his  eagerness  to  depart, 
he  would  not  suffer  the  horses  to  bo  taken  from  the  chaise,  or  any 
refreshment  to  bo  brought  him  by  the  Edwins,  notwithstanding  their 
pressing  entreaties ; neither  would  he  answer  their  interrogatories  as 
to  where  he  was  going,  saying  they  should  know  hereafter.  The 
parting  embrace  was  at  last  given  and  received  with  a heavy  heart; 
Amanda  was  handed  to  the  carriage ; silence  prevailed ; all  the 
travellers  were  equally  though  differently  affected : the  cottage  and 
the  spire  of  the  village  church  had  awakened  the  most  affecting 
remembrances  in  the  mind  of  Fitzalan,  and  tears  fell  from  him  to  the 
memory  of  his  unfortunate  Malvina ; sighs  burst  from  Amanda  as 
she  viewed  the  white  turrets  of  Tudor  Hall,  and  Ellen  sobbed  on 
passing  the  forsaken  cottage  of  poor  Chip.  From  all  these  affecting 
and  beloved  objects  the  rapidity  of  the  carriage  soon  conveyed  them, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ADBKY. 


85 


but  the  impressions  they  left  upon  their  mind  were  nv)t  so  easily 
eradicated.  Fitzalan  was  the  first  to  break  the  unsocial  silence,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  he  did  so  for  the  purpose  of  rousing  the  dejection  of 
his  daughter.  A cross  road  from  the  cottage  shortly  brought  them 
to  Conway  ferry,  which  they  were  obliged  to  pass,  and  here,  had 
Amanda’s  mind  been  at  ease,  she  would  have  felt  truly  gratified  by 
viewing  the  remains  of  gothic  magnificence  which  Castle  Conway 
exhibited ; as  it  was,  she  could  not  behold  them  unmoved,  and,  whilst 
she  admired,  she  gave  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh  to  grandeur  and 
decay.  They  only  continued  in  Conway  till  a carriage  was  provided 
for  them,  and  soon  came  beneath  the  stupendous  projections  of 
Penmaenmawr : this  was  a scene  as  new  as  awful  to  Amanda. 
“ Well,  Cot  in  heaven  pless  their  souls,”  Ellen  said,  “ what  a tefil  of 
a way  they  should  be  in  if  one  of  them  huge  stones  rolled  down 
upon  the  carriage.”  They  stopped  not  again  till  they  reached  Bangor 
ferry,  where  they  were  to  rest  for  the  night.  Amanda’s  strength  and 
spirits  were  now  so  entirely  exhausted,  that  had  not  a glass  of  wine 
been  immediately  procured  her,  she  would  have  fainted  from  weak- 
ness ; this  a little  revived  her,  and  the  tears  she  shed  relieved  in  some 
degree  the  oppressions  of  her  heart ; her  father  left  her  and  Ellen 
together,  while  he  went  to  give  directions  about  the  journey  of  the 
ensuing  day. 

Amanda  went  to  the  windoAV  and  threw  up  the  sash ; the  air 
from  the  mountains  she  tliought  refreshed  her ; the  darkness  of  the 
hour  was  opposed  by  a bright  moon,  which  cast  a trembling  radiance 
upon  the  water,  and  by  its  partial  gleams  exhibited  a beautiful  scene 
of  light  and  shade,  that,  had  Amanda  been  in  another  frame  of  mind, 
she  would  infinitely  have  admired ; the  scene  too  was  almost  as  silent 
as  it  was  lovely,  for  no  voice  was  heard,  except  a low  murmur  from 
voices  below  stairs.  While  she  stood  here  in  a deep  reverie,  the  pad- 
dling of  oars  suddenly  roused  her,  and  she  beheld  a boat  on  the  oppo- 
site shore,  which  in  a few  minutes  gained  the  one  where  she  was., 
and  she  saw  coming  from  it  to  the  inn  a large  party  of  gentlemen, 
whose  air  and  attendants  announced  them  to  be  men  of  fashion ; they 
seemed  by  their  discourse  to  be  a convivial  party ; the  light  was  too 
dim  to  allow  their  faces  to  be  discerned,  but  in  the  figure  of  one, 
Amanda  thought  she  perceived  a strong  resemblance  to  Lord  Morti- 
mer *.  her  heart  throbbed;  she  leaned  forward  to  endeavour  to  distin- 


8G  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY* 

guisli  note  plainly,  and  at  the  moment  heard  his  well  known  voic^ 
ordering  his  groom  to  have  the  horses  ready  at  twelve  o’clock,  as  he 
would  take  the  advantage  of  such  fine  weather  to  set  off  at  that  hour 
for  Tudor  Hall.  The  party  were  then  ushered  into  a room  contiguous 
to  the  one  occupied  by  Amanda,  while  the  bustling  of  the  waiters,  and 
the  clattering  of  knives,  forks,  and  plates,  announced  the  preparations 
for  a late  dinner.  Oh ! what  were  now  the  agitations  of  Amanda,  to 
think  that  in  one  moment  she  could  inform  Lord  Mortimer  of  her 
situation!  hut  the  transport  the  idea  gave  was  relinquished  almost 
as  soon  as  felt,  as  such  a measure  she  thought  might  perhaps  for  ever 
disoblige  her  father.  In  this  tumult  of  doubt  and  perplexity  he  found 
her,  and  by  his  conduct  convinced  her  that  he  not  only  knew  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  being  in  the  house,  but  wished  her  to  avoid  him,  for  he 
instantly  led  her  from  the  window,  and,  shutting  it  down,  darted,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  a severe  frown  at  her : a dagger  in  the  breast 
of  Amanda  could  scarcely  have  given  her  more  pain ; a cold  horror 
ran  through  her  veins,  and  she  was  oppressed  by  as  many  fears  as  if 
she  had  been  conscious  of  offending  him.  The  supper  he  had  ordered 
was  a little  retarded  by  the  late  dinner  of  his  gay  neighbours ; he 
would  have  had  it  in  another  room,  had  another  been  engaged: 
vainly  did  his  timid  companions  try  to  eat : Amanda  was  sick,  and 
EUen  frightened,  though  she  knew  not  why;  the  waiter  was 
dismissed,  and  the  most  unsocial  silence  prevailed. 

Undoubted  gaiety  reigned  in  the  next  apartment,  from  which  every 
sound  could  be  plainly  distinguished.  Dinner  over,  the  exhilarating 
juice  went  round,  and  bumper  toasts  were  called ; Lord  Mortimer  at 
last  was  asked  for  a fair  nymph.  ‘‘  I will  give  you,”  exclaimed  he, 
in  a voice  which  denoted  his  being  uncommonly  elevated,  “an 
angel!”  Amanda’s  heart  beat  violently,  and  her  cheeks  glowed.  A 
name  for  this  celestial  beauty,  demanded  one  of  the  party ; 
“Amanda,”  cried  his  lordship.  “ 0 faith,  Mortimer,  that  wont  do,” 
said  another  of  his  companions,  “ this  angel  shall  not  pass  without 
the  rest  of  her  name.”  “ Miss  Fitzalan  then,”  exclaimed  his  lordship. 
“ Oh,  oh,”  cried  a new  voice,  with  a loud  laugh,  after  due  honour 
had  been  paid  to  the  toast,  “I  begin  to  unravel  a mystery;  upon  my 
soul,  I could  not  conceive  till  this  instant  what  had  kept  you  so  long 
at  the  Hall ; for  I had  seen  the  maiden  part  of  the  household,  and 
knew  the  mettle  there  not  very  attractive  but  this  Amanda,  I sup* 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


87 


pose,  is  the  rosy  daughter  of  some  poor  curate  in  this  vicinity,  who 
. for” — “ Beware,”  interrupted  Lord  Mortimer,  in  an  agitated  voices 
“ of  what  you  say ; give  me  no  reason  to  repent  having  introduced  a 
name  so  valued  into  this  company ; the  situation  of  Miss  Fitzalan  is 
not  exactly  what  you  suppose ; but  let  this  suflSce  for  you,  to  know  it 
is  such  as  secures  her  from  every  species  of  impertinence ; and  was 
it  even  less  protected,  her  own  elegance  and  propriety  would  elevate 
her  above  receiving  any.”  The  face  of  Fitzalan  during  this  conver- 
sation was  crimsoned  over,  and  he  again  darted  a frown  at  the  trem- 
bling Amanda,  which  almost  petrified  her ; he  told  her  that  she  and 
Ellen  must  retire  immediately  to  rest,  as  they  had  a long  journey 
before  them  the  ensuing  day,  which  would  require  their  rising  early. 
— Amanda  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  wished  to  be  relieved  from  his 
presence,  and  gladly  rose  to  obey  him:  he  attended  her  himself  to 
the  room  prepared  for  her,  which  was  directly  over  that  where  the 
gentlemen  sat : to  think  of  rest  was  impossible ; the  severity  of  her 
father’s  looks,  and  her  precipitate  journey — she  knew  not  whither 
— but  evidently  for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  Lord  Mortimer,  filled  the 
thoughts  of  Amanda  with  confusion  and  distress.  Ellen  essayed  art 
less  consolation. 

What  the  tefil  do  you  think,”  said  she,  “if  I was  to  go  down  and 
give  his  lordship  an  intimation  of  your  peing  here  ? You  could  easily 
contrive  to  see  him  in  the  garden,  or  else  we  could  pring  him  up  here, 
and  if  the  captain  surprised  us,  we  could  pop  him  in  a moment 
behind  the  curtain.”  Amanda  motioned  her  to  silence,  unwilling  to 
lose  the  smallest  sound  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  voice,  and  determined, 
anxious  as  she  was  to  see  him,  never  to  act  in  opposition  to  her 
father.  At  length  the  horses  were  led  from  the  stable,  and  the  con- 
vivial party  descended  to  them.  Amanda  softly  raised  the  window, 
and  saw  Lord  Mortimer  eagerly  vault  upon  the  saddle.  He  gave  a 
hasty  adieu  to  his  friends  and  galloped  off.  They  mounted  at  the 
same  time,  but  took  a contrary  direction.  Amanda  leaned  out  till 
she  could  no  longer  hear  the  clattering  of  the  horse’s  hoofs:  her 
heart  sunk  as  the  sound  died  upon  her  ear;  she  wept  as  she  retired 
from  the  window ; the  idea  of  Mortimers  disappointment  aggravated 
her  grief;  she  no  longer  opposed  Ellen’s  efforts  to  undress  her; 
exhausted  by  fatigue,  sleep  soon  closed  her  eyes,  and  her  fancy  again 
transported  her  to  Tudor  Hall,  and  Mortimer, 


88 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Bj  tlie  first  dawn  of  day  a knock  at  her  chamber  door  roased  her 
from  this  pleasing  illusion,  and  she  heard  her  father  desiring  her  tc 
rise  immediately;  drowsy  as  she  was,  she  instantly  obeyed  the 
summons,  and  awaking  Ellen,  they  were  ready  to  attend  him  in 
few  minutes ; a boat  was  already  prepared,  and  on  gaining  the  oppc- 
ftite  side  they  found  a carriage  in  waiting.  Day  was  now  just  dawn- 
ing; a gray  mist  enveloped  the  mountains,  and  cast  a shade  of 
obscurity  upon  all  the  inferior  objects;  at  length  the  atmosphere 
began  to  brighten:  the  lucid  clouds  in  the  east  were  tinged  with 
golden  radiance,  and  the  sun  in  beautiful  and  refulgent  majesty  arose, 
gladdening  the  face  of  nature  with  his  potent  beams;  the  trees,  tliG 
shrubs,  seemed  waving  their  dewy  heads,  in  sign  of  grateful  hom^ige, 
while  their  winged  inhabitants,  as  they  soared  in  the  air,  poured 
forth  the  softest  notes  of  melody,  Amanda,  in  spite  of  sadness,  beheM 
the  charming  scene  with  admiration,  and  Fitzalan  contemplated  it 
with  delight.  ‘‘All  nature,”  he  exclaimed,  “points  out  to  man  the 
gratitude  due  to  the  divine  Dispenser  of  good : hardened  must  that 
heart  be  against  the  feelings  of  sensibility,  which  the  harmony  and 
fragrance  of  this  early  hour  awakens  not  to  a perfect  sense  of  it.” 
Amanda  assented  more  by  a smile  than  words  (for  she  was  ill  able  to 
speak)  to  his  remark.  They  stopped  not  till  they  reached  Gwintey, 
where  they  breakfasted,  and  then  proceeded,  without  resting  again, 
to  Holyhead,  which  place  Fitzalan  announced  as  they  entered  U:  and 
now  Amanda  first  conceived  the  idea  of  being  brought  to  ^uiothe* 
kingdom,  in  which  her  father  soon  confirmed  her,  for,  as  soon  <is  they 
alighted,  he  inquired  when  a packet  would  sail,  and  heard  wi  ch  evi 
dent  pleasure  about  six  in  the  afternoon ; he  directly  desnrevl  three 
passages  to  be  engaged;  and  having  ordered  an  early  dinner,  dis- 
missed Ellen  into  another  room,  and  seating  himself  by  Aman  ia,  he 
took  her  hand,  and  with  a tender  voice  thus  addressed  her : “ lo  give 
pain  to  your  gentle  heart  has  inflicted  torture  on  mine,  but  liouGiu- 
compelled  me  to  the  conduct  which  I have  adopted,  and  Aluch  f 
trust  and  believe,  Amanda  will  excuse,  when  she  knows  my  motive 
for  it,  which  in  due  order  slie  shall  hear.  On  Lord  CLerburj^’s 
arrival  in  town,  I -was  immediately  informed  of  it,  according  to  the 
promise  of  his  domestics,  and  directly  sent  him  my  letter:  scarcely 
had  he  read  it,  ere,  with  all  the  ardour  of  real  friendship,  he  camt 
and  brought  me  to  his  house,  where  we  might  securely  inflect  oa 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


89 


what  was  to  be  done ; his  lordship  soon  formed  a plan  that  at  once 
inspired  me  with  gratitude  and  pleasure,  as  it  promised  me  com- 
petence, without  depriving  me  of  independence : this  was  to  accept 
the  agency  of  a considerable  estate  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  which  he 
possessed  in  right  of  his  wife,  the  late  Countess  of  Cherbury,  who 
was  an  Irish  heiress : he  proposed  my  residing  in  the  mansion  house, 
olFering  to  advance  a sum  sufficient  to  answer  all  demands  and  exi- 
gencies ; and  striving  to  lighten  the  obligations  he  conferred  upon  me, 
by  declaring  he  had  long  been  seeking  a man  of  well-known  probity, 
as  his  last  agent  had  gone  off  considerably  in  arrears  with  him.  I 
accepted  his  generous  offer,  and  soon  freed  myself  from  the  power  of 
Belgrave.  I now  felt  a tranquillity  I was  long  a stranger  to,  and  was 
busied  in  preparing  to  come  down  to  you,  when  Lord  Mortimer’s 
letter,  like  a clap  of  thunder,  broke  the  happy  calm  I had  enjoyed. 
Gracious  Heaven ! I shuddered  to  think  that  at  the  very  period  Lord 
Cherbury  was  building  up  my  fortunes,  the  hopes  he  entertained  for 
his  darling  son  were  in  a way  of  being  destroyed,  through  means  of 
a connexion  of  mine.  He  had  hinted  to  me  his  having  already 
settled  upon  a splendid  alliance  for  Lord  Mortimer,  which  he  also 
hinted  his  heart  was  set  on : this  the  infatuated  young  man  had  him- 
self some  knowledge  of,  for  in  his  rash  letter  he  entreated  my  secrecy 
relative  to  his  proposal  for  you,  till  beyond  the  reach  of  mortals  to 
separate  you.  No  doubt  he  would  never  have  asked  my  consent,  had 
he  thought  he  could  have  procured  you  without  it ; he  took  me,  I 
suppose,  for  some  needy  and  ambitious  creature,  who  would,  though 
at  the  expense  of  integrity,  grasp  at  the  opportunity  of  elevating  a 
child  to  rank  and  fortune ; but  never  was  an  erring  mortal  more  mis- 
taken; though  dearer  to  me  than  the  air  I breathe,  though  the 
lovely  child  of  my  lost  Malvina,  though  a cherub  whose  innocent 
endearments  often  raised  in  me,  as  Prospero  says — 

“ An  undergoing  stomach — tc  bear  up 
Against  wliat  should  ensue,** 

I would  rather  see  you  breathless  at  my  feet,  than,  by  conscious  and 
apparent  meanness,  deserve  and  incur  the  malevolence  of  calumny. 
I committed  the  letter  to  the  flames,  and  requested  Lord  Cherbury's 
final  commands;  being  desirous  to  commence  my  journey  without 
longer  delay,  as  your  delicate  state  of  health,  I said,  made  me  anxious 


90 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


to  have  yon  immediately  under  my  own  care;  he  complied  with  my 
request,  and  I travelled  post,  resolved  to  separate  you  and  Lord  Mor- 
timer, even  if  prepared  for  the  altar : nor  was  I alone  actuated  to  th^a 
by  gratitude  to  Lord  Cherbury,  or  consideration  for  my  own  honour 
—no,  with  these,  a regard  for  your  peace  equally  influenced  me ; a 
soul  of  sensibility  and  refinement  like  yours  could  never,  I know,  be 
happy  if  treated  with  repulsive  coldness  by  the  family  of  her 
husband ; particularly  if  her  conscience  told  her  she  merited  that 
coldness  by  entering  it  clandestinely.  Could  I bear  to  think  that 
you,  so  lovely  in  person,  so  amiable  in  manners,  so  illustrious  in 
descent,  should  be  called  an  artful  and  necessitous  contriver;  an 
imputation  which,  most  undoubtedly,  your  union  with  Lord  Morti- 
mer would  have  incurred.  No ! to  the  God  who  gave  you  to  my 
care,  I hold  myself  responsible,  as  far  as  in  my  power,  for  preserving 
your  peace ; to  the  mother,  whose  last  words  implored  my  tender- 
ness for  her  offspring,  I hold  myself  accountable;  to  me  she  still 
exists ; I think  her  ever  near,  and  ere  I act,  always  reflect  whether 
such  an  action  would  meet  her  approbation:  such  is  the  respect 
virtue  excites  ; it  lives  when  the  frail  texture  of  mortality  is  dis- 
solved. Your  attachment,  when  repelled  by  reason  and  fortitude, 
will  soon  vanish;  as  for  Lord  Mortimer,  removed  from  the  flame 
which  warmed  his  heart,  he  will  soon  forget  it  ever  played  around 
it.  Should  he,  however,  be  daring  enough  to  persevere,  he  will  find 
my  resolution  unalterable.  Honour  is  the  only  hereditary  possession 
that  ever  came  to  me  uninjured ; to  preserve  it  in  the  same  state  has 
been  ever  my  unremitted  study ; it  irradiated  the  gloomy  morning  of 
care,  and  I trust  it  will  gild  the  setting  hours  of  existence.” 
Amanda’s  emotions  deprived  her  of  speech  or  action ; she  sat  a pale 
statue,  listening  to  her  father’s  firm  and  rapid  language,  which 
announced  the  abolition  of  her  hopes ; ignorant  of  her  inability  to 
speak,  he  felt  hurt  at  her  silence,  and  rising  abruptly,  walked  about 
the  room  with  a disordered  air.  “I  see,  I see,”  cried  he  at  last, 
looking  mournfully  upon  her,  “I  am  destin’d  to  be  unhappy;  the 
little  treasure  which  remained  from  the  wreck  of  felicity,  I had 
hoped  (vain  hope !)  would  have  comforted  and  consoled  me  for  what 
then  was  lost.”  ‘‘Oh,  my  father  I”  exclaimed  Amanda,  suddenly 
starting  and  sighing  deeply,  “how  you  pierce  ray  heart!”  His  pale, 
emaciated  looks  seemed  to  declare  him  sinking  beneath  a burden  of 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBSTt 


01 


care ; she  started  up  and  flung  herself  into  his  arms.  ‘‘  Dearest,  best 
of  fathers,”  she  exclaimed,  in  a voice  broken  by  sobs,  “ what  is  all  the 
* world  to  me  in  comparison  of  you  ? Shall  I put  Lord  Mortimer,  so 
lately  a stranger,  in  competition  with  your  happiness  ? Oh,  no ! I 
will  henceforth  try  to  regulate  every  impulse  of  my  heart  according 
to  your  wishes.”  Eitzalan  burst  into  tears ; the  enthusiasm  of  virtue 
warmed  them  both : hallowed  are  her  raptures,  and  amply  do  they 
recompense  the  pain  attendant  on  her  sacrifices. 

Dinner  was  brought  in,  to  which  they  sat  down  in  their  usual 
social  manner,  and  Amanda,  happy  in  her  father’s  smiles,  felt  a ray 
of  returning  cheerfulness.  The  evening  was  delightfully  serene 
when  they  went  on  board,  and  the  vessel,  with  a gentle  motion, 
glided  over  the  the  glttering  waves ; sickness  soon  compelled  Amanda 
and  Ellen  to  retire  from  the  deck ; yet,  without  a sigh,  the  former 
could  not  relinquish  the  receding  prospect  of  the  Welch  mountains. 
By  the  dawn  of  next  morning  the  vessel  entered  the  bay  of  Dublin, 
and  Fitzalan  shortly  after  brought  Amanda  from  the  cabin  to  con- 
template a scene  which  far  surpassed  all  her  ideas  of  sublimity  and 
beauty ; a scene  which  the  rising  sun  soon  heightened  to  the  most 
glowing  radiance.  They  landed  at  the  Marine  Ho  tel,  where  they  break- 
fasted, and  then  proceeded  in  a carriage  to  an  hotel  in  Oapel-street, 
where  they  proposed  staying  a few  days,  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying 
Oscar’s  company,  whose  regiment  was  quartered  in  Dublin,  and 
making  some  requisite  purchases  for  their  journey  to  the  north ; as 
the  carriage  drove  down  Oapel-street,  Amanda  saw  a young  ofiicer 
standing  at  the  corner  of  Mary’s  Abbey,  whose  air  very  much 
resembled  Oscar’s:  her  heart  palpitated;  she  looked  out  and  per- 
ceived the  resemblance  a just  one,  for  it  was  Oscar  himself ; the  car- 
riage passed  too  swiftly  for  him  to  recognize  her  face,  but  he  was 
astonished  to  see  a fair  hand  waving  to  him ; he  walked  d Dwn  the 
Btrcet,  and  reached  the  hotel  just  as  they  were  entering  it. 


OHILDKKN  OF  THB  ABBKT* 


wt 


CHAPTER  X. 

And  whence,  unhappy  youth,  he  cried, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? Goldsmith. 

The  raptures  of  this  meeting  surpassed  description ; to  Oscar  thoy 
were  heightened  by  surprise;  he  was,  unfortunately,  that  day  on 
guard  at  the  bank,  therefore,  could  only  pay  them  a few  short,  and 
stolen  visits,  but  the  next  morning  the  moment  he  was  relieved,  he 
came  to  them.  Fitzalan  had  given  Amanda  money  to  purchase 
whatever  she  deemed  necessary  for  her  convenience  and  amuse- 
ment, and  Oscar  attended  her  to  the  most  celebrated  shops,  to  make 
her  purchases;  having  supplied  herself  with  a pretty  fashionable 
assortment  for  her  wardrobe,  she  procured  a small  collection  of  books, 
sufficient,  however,  from  their  excellence,  to  form  a little  library  in 
themselves,  and  every  requisite  for  drawing ; nor  did  she  forget  the 
little  wants  and  vanities  of  Ellen ; they  returned  about  dinner  time 
to  the  hotel,  where  they  found  their  father,  who  had  been  transact- 
ing business  for  Lord  Cherbury  in  different  parts  of  the  town.  We 
may  now  suppose  him  in  the  possession  of  happiness,  blessed,  as  he 
was,  in  the  society  of  his  children,  and  the  certainty  of  a compe- 
tence ; but  alas ! happiness  has  almost  ever  an  attendant  drawback, 
and  he  now  experienced  one  of  the  most  corroding  kind  from  the 
alteration  he  witnessed  in  his  son.  Oscar  was  improved  in  person, 
but  his  eyes  no  longer  beamed  with  animation,  and  the  rose  upon 
his  cheek  was  pale ; his  cheerfulness  no  longer  appeared  spontaneous, 
but  constrained,  as  if  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  veiling  deep  and 
heartfelt  sorrow. 

Fitzalan,  with  all  the  anxiety  and  tenderness  of  a parent,  delicately 
expressed  his  wish  of  learning  the  source  of  his  uneasiness,  that  by 
so  doing  he  might  be  better  qualified  to  alleviate  it,  hinting  at  the 
same  time  in  indirect  terms,  that  if  occasioned  by  any  of  the  impru- 
dences which  youth  is  sometimes  inadvertently  led  into,  he  would 
readily  excuse  them,  from  a certainty  that  he  who  repented  never 
would  again  commit  them.  Oscar  started  from  the  remotest  hint  of 
divulging  his  uneasiness ; he  begged  his  father,  however,  to  believe 


children  of  the  abbey. 


95 


(since  lie  had  unfortunately  perceived  it)  that  it  was  not  derived 
from  imprudence ; he  pretended  to  say  it  was  but  a slight  chagrin, 
which  would  soon  wear  away  of  itself  if  not  renewed  by  inquiries. 
Fifzalan,  however,  was  too  much  affected  by  the  subject  to  drop  it  as 
readily  as  Oscar  wished.  After  regarding  him  for  a few  minutes, 
with  an  attention  as  mournful  as  fixed  (while  they  sat  round  the  table 
after  dinner),  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  “Alas,  my  dear  boy,  I fear 
things  are  worse  within,  than  you  will  allow.”  “ ITow  indeed,  Oscar,” 
cried  Amanda,  sweetly  smiling  on  him,  anxious  to  relieve  him  from 
the  embarrassment  these  words  had  involved  him  in,  and  to  dissipate 
the  deep  gloom  of  her  father’s  brow,  “ though  never  in  the  wars,  I 
fancy  you  are  not  quite  heart  whole.”  He  answered  her  with  an 
affected  gaiety ; but,  as  if  wishing  to  change  the  discourse,  suddenly 
spoke  of  Colonel  Belgrave,  who,  at  present,  he  said,  was  absent  from 
the  regiment ; occupied  by  his  own  feeling,  he  observed  not  the  glow 
which  mantled  the  cheeks  of  his  father  and  sister  at  that  name. 

“ You  know  Mrs.  Belgrave,”  said  Amanda,  endeavouring  to  regain 
composure.  “Know  her!”  repeated  he,  with  an  involuntary  sigh, 
“ oh  yes !”  Then  after  the  pause  of  a few  minutes,  turning  to  his 
father,  “ I believe  I have  already  informed  you,  sir,”  said  he,  “ that 
she  is  the  daughter  of  your  brave  old  friend,  General  Honeywood, 
who,  I assure  you,  paid  me  no  little  attention  on  your  account ; his 
house  is  quite  the  temple  of  hospitality ; and  she  the  little  presiding 
goddess.”  “She  is  happy,  I hope,”  said  Amanda.  “Oh,  surely!” 
replied  Oscar,  little  thinking  of  the  secret  motive  his  sister  had  for 
asking  such  a question;  “she  possesses  what  the  world  thinks 
necessary  to  constitute  felicity.” 

Fitzalan  had  accounted  to  his  son  foi:  leaving  Devonshire,  by  saying 
the  air  had  disagreed  with  Amanda : he  told  him  of  the  friendship  of 
Lord  Oherbury,  from  which  he  said  he  trusted  shortly  to  be  able  to 
have  him  promoted.  “ Be  assured,  my  dear  Oscar,  most  willingly 
would  I relinquish  many  of  the  comforts  of  life  to  attain  the  ability 
of  hastening  your  advancement,  or  adding  to  your  happiness.”  “ My 
happiness!”  Oscar  mournfully  repeated.  Tears  filled  his  eyes;  he 
could  no  longer  restrain  them,  and  starting  up,  hurried  to  a window. 
Amanda  followed,  unutterably  affected  at  his  emotion.  “ Oscar,  my 
dear  Oscar,”  said  she,  as  she  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  “ you 
distress  me  beyond  expression.”  He  sat  down,  and  leaning  his  head 


04 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


upon  her  bosom,  as  she  stood  before  him,  his  tears  fell  through  her 
handkerchief.  “ Oh  heavens  I”  exclaimed  Fitzalan,  clasping  his  hands 
together,  “ what  a sight  is  this  1 Oh ! mj  children,  from  your  felicity 
alone  could  I ever  derive  any;  if  the  hope  I entertained  of  that 
felicity  is  disappointed,  the  heart  which  cherished  it  must  soon  bo 
silent.”  He  arose  and  went  to  them.  “ Yet,”  continued  he,  “ amidst 
the  anguish  of  this  moment,  I feel  a ray  of  pleasure  at  perceiving  an 
affection  so  strong  and  tender  between  you ; it  will  be  a mutual 
consolation  and  support  when  the  feeble  help  and  protection  I can 
give  is  finally  removed ; oh ! then,  my  Oscar,”  he  proceeded,  while  ho 
folded  their  united  hands  in  his,  “ become  the  soothing  friend  and 
guardian  of  this  dear,  this  amiable,  this  too  lovely  girl : let  her  not 
too  severely  feel — too  bitterly  mourn — the  loss  of  an  unhappy  father.” 

Amanda’s  tears  began  to  stream,  and  Oscar’s  for  a few  minutes 
were  increased.  “ Excuse  me,”  at  last  he  said,  making  an  effort  to 
exert  himself,  to  his  father,  “ and  be  assured  to  the  utmost  of  my 
ability  I will  ever  obey  your  wishes,  and  fulfil  your  expectations ; I 
am  ashamed  of  the  weakness  I have  betrayed ; I will  yield  to  it  no 
more ; forget  therefore  your  having  seen  it,  or  at  least  remember  it 
without  pain,  as  I solemnly  assure  you,  no  effort  on  my  part  shall  be 
untried  to  conquer  it  entirely ; and  now  let  the  short  time  we  have 
to  continue  together  be  devoted  to  cheerfulness.” 

Soon  after  this,  he  mentioned  Parker’s  performance  in  Marlborough 
green,  and  proposed,  as  it  was  now  the  hour,  taking  Amanda  there ; 
the  proposal  was  not  objected  to,  and  Ellen,  who  they  knew  would 
particularly  delight  in  such  an  amusement,  was  committed  to  the  care 
of  Oscar’s  servant,  a smart  young  soldier,  who  escorted  her  with 
much  gallantry.  The  green  was  extremely  crowded,  particularly 
with  officers,  whose  wandering  glances  were  soon  attracted  to 
Amanda,  as  one  of  the  most  elegant  girls  present.  Oscar  was  soon 
surrounded  by  them,  and  compelled,  not  only  to  gratify  their 
curiosity,  by  discovering  who  she  was,  but  their  gallantry  by  intro- 
ducing them  to  her.  Their  compliments  soon  diverted  her  attention 
from  the  exhibition ; and  Ellen,  who  sat  behind  her  on  the  bench, 
afforded  innocent  mirth  by  her  remarks.  ‘ wPless  her  soul  and  poty 
too,”  she  said,  “ it  was  the  most  comical  and  wonderfulest  sight  she 
had  ever  seen  in  her  porn  tays.”  A string  of  red  coats  would  have 
attended  Amanda  to  the  hotel,  had  not  Oscar  prevented  t. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


95 


Tlie  next  day  was  devoted  to  visiting  the  public  buildings,  the 
park,  and  a few  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  its  vicinage.  On  the 
ensuing  morning  Fitzalan  and  Amanda  continued  their  journey  to 
the  north,  where  Oscar  assured  them  he  expected  leave  to  visit  tlieni 
the  following  summer,  after  the  reviews  were  over ; as  he  helped  his 
Bister  into  the  carriage,  she  put  a pocket-book  into  his  hand  (given  by 
her  father  for  that  purpose,)  which  contained  something  to  replenish 
his  purse. 

Ere  we  attend  the  travellers,  or  rather  while  they  are  journeying 
along,  we  shall  endeavour  to  account  for  the  dejection  of  Oscar. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

From  the  loud  camp  retir’d,  and  noisy  court, 

In  honourable  ease  and  rural  sport 
The  remnant  of  his  days  he  safely  pass’d, 

Nor  found  they  lagg’d  too  slow  nor  flew  too  fast. 

He  made  his  wish  with  his  estate  comply, 

Joyful  to  live,  yet  not  afraid  to  die; 

One  child  he  had,  a daughter  chaste  and  fair, 

His  age’s  comfbrt  and  his  fortune’s  heir. 

Pbior. 

Oscar’s  regiment,  on  his  first  joining  it  in  Ireland,  was  quartered 
in  Enniskellen : the  corps  was  agreeable,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the 
town  hospitable  and  polite.  He  felt  all  the  delight  of  a young  and 
enterprising  mind,  entering  to  what  appeared  to  him,  the  road  to 
glory  and  pleasure.  Many  of  his  idle  mornings  were  spent  in 
rambling  about  the  country,  sometimes  accompanied  by  a party  of 
ofiicers,  and  sometimes  alone. 

In  one  of  his  solitary  excursions  along  the  beautiful  banks  of 
Lough  Erne,  with  a light  fusee  on  his  shoulder,  as  the  woods,  that 
almost  descended  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  abounded  in  game,  after 
proceeding  a few  miles,  he  felt  quite  exhausted  by  the  heat,  which, 
as  it  was  now  the  middle  of  summer,  was  intense ; at  a little  distance 
he  perceived  an  orchard,  whose  glowing  apples  promised  a delightful 
repaat ; knowing  that  the  fruit  in  many  of  the  neighbouring  places 


96 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


was  kept  for  sale,  he  resolved  on  trying  if  any  was  to  be  purchased 
here,  and  accordingly  opened  a small  gate,  and  ascended  through  a 
grass- grown  path  in  the  orchard  to  a very  plain,  white  cottage,  which 
stood  on  a gently  sloping  lawn,  surrounded  by  a rude  paling.  He 
knocked  against  the  door  with  his  fusee,  and  immediately  a little  rosy 
girl  appeared.  “ Tell  me,  my  pretty  lass,”  cried  he,  “ whether  I can 
purchase  any  of  the  fine  apples  I see  here.”  “ Anan!”  exclaimed  the 
^rl,  with  a foolish  stare.  Oscar  glancing  at  the  moment  into  the 
passage,  saw  from  a half-closed  door  nearly  opposite  the  one  at 
which  he  stood,  a beautiful  fair  face  peeping  out.  He  involuntarily 
started  and  pushing  aside  the  girl,  made  a step  into  the  passage.  The 
room  directly  opened,  and  an  elderly  woman,  of  a genteel  figure, 
and  pleasing  countenance,  appeared.  “Good  heavens!”  cried  Oscar, 
taking  off  his  hat,  and  retreating,  “I  fear  I have  been  guilty  of  the 
highest  impertinence;  the  only  apology  I can  offer  is  by  saying  it 
was  not  intentional.  I am  quite  a stranger  here,  and  having  been 
informed  most  of  the  orchards  hereabouts  contained  fruit  for  sale,  I 
intruded  under  that  idea.”  “ Your  mistake,  sir,”  she  replied,  with  a 
benevolent  smile,  “ is  too  trifiing  to  require  an  apology,  nor  shall  it 
be  attended  with  any  disappointment  to  you.” 

She  then  politely  showed  him  into  the  parlour,  where,  with  equal 
pleasure  and  admiration,  he  contemplated  the  fair  being,  of  whom 
before  he  had  but  a transient  glance.  She  appeared  to  be  scarcely 
seventeen,  and  was,  both  as  to  face  and  figure,  what  a painter  would 
have  chosen  to  copy  for  the  portrait  of  a little  playful  Hebe ; though 
below  even  the  middle  size,  she  was  formed  with  the  nicest  symmetry ; 
her  skin  was  of  dazzling  fairness,  and  so  transparent  that  the  veins 
were  clearly  discernible ; the  softest  blush  of  nature  shaded  her 
beautifully  rounded  cheeks ; her  mouth  was  small  and  pouting,  and 
whenever  she  smiled,  a thousand  graces  sported  round  it : her  eyes 
were  full  and  of  a heavenly  blue,  soft,  yet  animated,  giving,  like  the 
expression  of  her  whole  countenance,  an  idea  of  innocence,  spirit 
and  sensibility ; her  hair,  of  the  palest  and  most  glossy  brown,  hung 
carelessly  about  her,  and,  though  dressed  in  a loose  morning  gown 
of  muslin,  she  possessed  an  air  of  fashion,  and  even  consequence : the 
easy  manner  in  which  she  bore  the  looks  of  Oscar,  proclaimed  her  at 
once  unaccustomed  to  admiration,  nor  displeased  with  that  she  now 
received : for  that  Oscar  admired  her  could  not  but  be  visible,  and  hd 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


97 


Bometlmcs  fancied  he  saw  an  arch  smile  playing  over  her  features  at 
the  involuntary  glances  he  directed  towards  her. 

A fine  basket  of  apples  and  some  delicious  cider  were  brought  to 
Oscar,  and  he  found  his  entertainer  as  hospitable  in  disposition  as 
she  was  pleasing  in  conversation. 

The  beautiful  interior  of  the  cottage  by  no  means  corresponded 
with  the  plainness  of  the  exterior ; the  furniture  was  elegantly  neat, 
and  the  room  ornamented  with  a variety  of  fine  prints  and  land- 
scapes ; a large  folding  glass  door  opened  from  it  into  a pleasure 
garden. 

Adela,  so  was  the  charming  young  stranger  called,  chatted  in  the 
most  lively  and  familiar  terms,  and  at  last  running  over  to  the  basket, 
tost  the  apples  all  about  the  table,  and  picking  ou  the  finest,  presented 
them  to  Oscar.  ’Tis  scarcely  necessary  to  say  he  received  them  with 
emotion ; but  how  transient  is  all  sublunary  bliss ! A cuckoo  clock 
over  Oscar’s  head,  by  striking  three,  reminded  him  that  he  had 
passed  near  two  hours  in  the  cottage.  “Oh,  heavens,”  cried  he, 
starting,  “ I have  made  a most  unconscionable  intrusion  : you  see  my 
dear  ladies,”  bowing  respectfully  to  both,  “the  consequence  of  being 
too  polite  and  too  fascinating.”  He  repeated  his  thanks  in  the  most 
animated  manner,  and  snatching  up  his  hat  departed,  yet  not  without 
casting 

“ One  longing,  lingering,  look  behind.” 


The  sound  of  footsteps  after  him  in  the  lawn  made  him  turn,  and 
he  perceived  the  ladies  had  followed  him  thither.  He  stopped  again 
to  speak  to  them,  and  extolled  the  lovely  prospect  they  had  from  that 
eminence,  of  the  lake  and  its  scattered  islands.  “ I presume,”  said 
Adela,  handling  the  fusee  on  which  he  leant,  “ you  were  trying  your 
success  to-day  in  fowling?”  “Yes,  but  as  you  perceive,  I have  been 
unsuccessful.”  “Then,  I assure  you,”  said  she,  with  an  arch  smile, 
“ there  is  choice  game  to  be  found  in  our  woods.” — “ Delicious  game 
indeed !”  cried  he  interrupting  the  archness  of  her  look,  and  animated 
by  it  to  touch  her  hand,  “but  only  tantalizing  to  a keen  sportsman, 
who  sees  it  elevated  above  his  reach.”  “Come,  come,”  exclaimed 
the  old  lady,  with  a sudden  gravity,  “ we  are  detaining  the  gentle- 
man.” She  took  her  fair  companion  by  the  arm,  and  hastily  turned 
to  the  cottage.  Oscar  gazed  after  them  a moment,  then  with  a half- 

5 


98 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY. 


smothered  sigh  descended  to  the  road.  He  could  not  help  thlnlang 
this  incident  of  the  morning  very  like  the  novel  adventures  he  had 
sometimes  read  to  his  sister  Amanda  as  she  sat  at  'work,  and  to  com- 
plete the  resemblance,  thought  he,  I must  fall  in  love  'with  the  little 
heroine.  Ah  ! Oscar,  beware  of  such  imprudence ; guard  your  heart 
with  all  your  care  against  tender  impressions,  till  fortune  has  been 
more  propitious  to  you ; thus  would  my  father  speak,  mused  Oscar, 
and  set  his  own  misfortune  in  terrible  array  before  me,  were  he  no'W 
present.  Well,  I must  endeavour  to  act  as  if  he  were  here  to  exhort 
me.  Heigh  ho ! proceeded  he,  shouldering  his  fusee,  glory  for  some 
time  to  come  must  be  my  mistress. 

The  next  morning  the  fusee  was  again  taken  dowm  and  he  sallied 
out,  carefully  avoiding  the  officers,  lest  any  of  tliem  snould  offer  to 
accompany  him,  for  he  felt  a strange  reluctance  to  their  participating 
either  the  smiles  of  Adela,  or  the  apples  of  the  old  lady.  Upon  his 
arrival  at  the  orchard,  finding  the  gate  open,  he  advanced  a few  steps 
up  the  path,  and  had  a glimpse  of  the  cottage,  but  no  object  was 
visible.  Oscar  was  too  modest  to  attempt  entering  it  uninvited,  ho 
therefore  turned  back,  yet  often  cast  a look  behind  him ; no  one  how- 
ever was  to  be  seen.  He  now  began  to  feel  the  heat  oppressive,  and 
himself  fatigued  with  the  walk,  and  sat  down  upon  a moss-covered 
stone,  on  the  margin  of  the  lake,  at  a little  distance  from  the  cottage, 
beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  a hawthorn;  his  hat  and  fuseo 
were  laid  at  his  feet,  and  a cold  breeze  from  the  water  refreshed  him ; 
upon  its  smooth  surface  a number  of  boats  and  small  sail  vessels  were 
now  gliding  about  in  various  directions,  and  enlivening  the  enchant- 
ing prospect  which  was  spread  upon  the  bosom  of  the  lake:  from 
contemplating  it  he  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  warble  of  a female 
voice ; he  started,  turned,  and  beheld  Adela  just  by  him,  “ Bless 
me!”  cried  she,  ‘‘who  would  have  thought  of  seeing  you  here?  why, 
you  looked  quite  fatigued,  and,  I believe,  want  apples  to-day  as  much 
as  you  did  yesterday.” — Tiien  sitting  down  on  the  seat  he  had 
resigned,  she  tossed  off  her  bonnet,  declaring  it  'was  insupportably 
warm,  and  began  rummaging  a small  work-bag  she  held  on  her  arnu 
Oscar  snatching  the  bonnet  from  the  ground,  Adela  flung  apples  into 
it,  observing  it  would  make  an  excellent  basket.  He  sat  down  at  her 
feet,  and  never  i)erhaps  felt  such  a variety  of  emotions  as  at  the  pre- 
sent moment : his  cheeks  glowed  with  a brighter  colour,  and  his  eyes 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


99 


were  raised  to  hers  with  the  most  ardent  admiration ; yet  not  to 
them  alone  could  he  confine  the  expression  of  his  feelings ; they 
broke  in  half-formed  sentences  from  his  lips,  which  Adela  heard  with 
the  most  perfect  composure,  desiring  him  either  to  eat  or  pocket  hia 
apples  quickly,  as  she  wanted  her  bonnet,  being  in  a great  hurry  to 
return  to  the  cottage,  from  which  she  had  made  a kind  of  stolen 
march.  The  apples  were  instantly  committed  to  his  pocket,  and  he 
was  permitted  to  tie  on  the  bonnet.  A depraved  man  might  have 
misinterpreted  the  gaiety  of  Adela,  or  at  least  endeavoured  to  take 
advantage  of  it ; but  the  sacred  impression  of  virtue,  which  nature 
and  education  had  stamped  upon  the  heart  of  Oscar,  was  indelibly 
fixed,  and  he  neither  suspected,  nor  for  worlds  would  have  attempted 
injuring  the  innocence  of  Adela ; he  beheld  her  (in  what  indeed  was 
a true  light)  as  a little  playful  nymph,  whose  actions  were  the  off- 
spring of  innocence. 

assure  you,”  exclaimed  she,  rising,  “I  am  very  loth  to  quit  this 
pleasant  seat,  but  if  I make  a much  longer  delay,  I shall  find  the  lady 
of  the  cottage  in  anxious  expectation.”  “May  I advanae?”  said 
Oscar,  as  he  pushed  open  the  gate  for  her.  “ If  you  do,”  replied  she, 
“ the  least  that  will  be  said  from  seeing  us  together,  is  that  we  were 
in  search  of  each  other  the  whole  of  the  morning.”  “ Well,”  cried 
Oscar,  laughing  at  this  careless  speech,  “and  if  they  do  say  so,  it 
would  not  be  doing  me  injustice.”  “Adieu,  adieu,”  said  she,  weaving 
her  hand,  “ not  another  word  for  a kingdom.” 

What  a compound  of  beauty  and  giddiness  it  is,  thought  Oscar, 
watching  her  till  she  entered  the  cottage.  As  he  returned  from  the 
sweet  spot,  he  met  some  labourers,  from  whom  he  inquired  concern- 
ing its  owner,  and  learned  she  was  a respectable  widow  lady  of  the 
name  of  Marlowe. 

On  Oscar’s  return  from  Enniskellin,  he  heard  from  the  officers  that 
General  lloneywood,  an  old  veteran  who  had  a fine  estate  about 
fourteen  miles  from  the  town,  was  that  morning  to  pay  his  compli- 
ments to  them,  and  that  cards  had  been  left  for  a grand  fete  and  ball 
which  he  annually  gave  on  the  first  of  July,  to  commemorate  one  of 
the  glorious  victories  of  King  William.  Every  person  of  any  fashion 
in  and  about  the  neighbourhood  was,  on  such  occasions,  sure  of  an 
invitacion,  and  the  officers  were  pleased  with  theirs,  as  they  had  foi 
some  time  wished  for  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  general’s  daughter^ 
wlio  was  very  much  admired. 


100  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 

The  general,  like  a true  veteran^  retained  an  enthusiastic  attach- 
liient  for  the  profession  of  arms,  to  which,  not  only  the  morning,  hut 
the  meridian  of  his  life  had  been  devoted,  and  which  he  had  not 
quitted  till  compelled  by  a debilitated  constitution.  Seated  in  his 
paternal  mansion,  he  began  to  experience  the  want  of  a faithful  com- 
panion, who  would  heighten  the  enjoyments  of  the  tranquil  hour, 
and  soothe  the  infirmities  of  age ; this  want  was  soon  supplied  by  his 
union  with  a young  lady  in  the  neighbourhood,  whose  only  dowry 
was  innocence  and  beauty.  From  the  great  disparity  of  their  ages, 
it  was  concluded  she  had  married  for  convenience ; but  the  tenor  of 
her  conduct  changed  this  opinion,  by  proving  the  general  possessed 
her  tenderest  affections.  A happier  oouple  were  not  known;  but 
this  happiness  w^as  terminated  as  suddenly  as  fatally  by  her  death, 
which  happened  two  yc€w:s  after  the  birth  of  her  daughter ; all  the 
general’s  love  was  then  centered  in  her  child.  Many  of  the  ladies  in 
the  neighbourhood,  induced  by  the  well-known  felicity  his  lady  had 
enjoyed,  or  by  the  largeness  of  his  fortune,  made  attempts  to  engage 
him  in  matrimonial  toils,  but  he  fought  shy  of  them  all,  solemnly 
declaring,  “ he  would  never  bring  a step-mother  over  his  dear  girl.” 
In  her  infancy  she  was  his  plaything,  and  as  she  grew  up,  his  com- 
fort; caressed,  flattered,  adored  from  her  childhood,  she  scarcely 
knew  the  meaning  of  harshness  and  contradiction ; a naturally  sweet 
dis})osition,  and  the  superintending  care  of  an  excellent  woman,  pre- 
vented any  pernicious  effect  from  such  excessive  indulgence  as  she 
received;  to  disguise  or  duplicity  she  was  a perfect  stranger;  her 
own  feelings  were  never  concealed,  and  others  she  supposed  equally 
sincere  in  revealing  theirs ; true,  the  open  avowal  of  her  regard  or 
contempt  often  incurred  the  imputation  of  imprudence,  but  had  she 
even  heard  of  it,  she  would  only  have  laughed  at  it,  for  the  general 
declared  whatever  she  said  was  right,  and  her  own  heart  assured  her 
of  the  innocence  of  her  intentions.  As  she  grew  up,  the  house  again 
became  the  seat  of  gaiety ; the  general,  though  very  infirm,  felt  his 
convivial  spirit  revive ; he  delighted  in  the  society  of  his  friends,  and 
could  still 

Shoulder  the  crutch,  and  show  how  fields  were  won. 

Oscar,  actuated  by  an  impulse,  which,  if  he  could,  he,  at  least,  did 
not  strive  to  account  for,  continued  daily  to  parade  before  the 
orchard,  but  without  again  seeing  Adela. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


101 


At  length  the  day  for  General  Honey  wood’s  entertainment  arrived, 
and  the  officers,  accompanied  by  a large  party,  set  off  early  for 
"Woodlawn,  the  name  of  the  general’s  seat;  it  was  situated  on  the 
borders  of  the  lake,  wiiere  they  found  barges  waiting  to  convey  them 
to  ^ small  island,  which  was  the  scene  of  the  morning’s  amusement. 
The  breakfast  was  laid  out  amidst  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  building, 
which,  from  the  venerable  remains  of  its  Gothic  elegance,  ■<vas,  most 
probably,  in  the  days  of  religious  enthusiasm,  the  seat  of  sacred 
piety ; the  old  trees  in  groups  formed  a thick  canopy  overhead,  and 
the  ivy  that  crept  along  the  walls  filled  up  many  of  the  niches  where 
the  windows  had  formerly  been ; those  that  still  remained  open,  by 
descending  to  the  ground,  afforded  a most  endian  ting  prospect  of  the 
lake ; the  long  succession  of  arches  which  composed  the  body  of  the 
chapel  were  in  many  places  covered  with  creeping  moss,  and  scat- 
tered over  with  wall-flowers,  blue  hare-bells,  and  other  spontaneous 
productions  of  nature,  while  between  them  were  placed  seats  and 
breakfast-tables,  ornamented  in  a fanciful  manner. 

The  officers  experienced  a most  agreeable  surprise  on  entering,  biU 
how  inferior  were  their  feelings  to  the  sensations  which  Oscar  felt, 
when,  introduced  with  the  party  by  the  general  to  his  daughter,  he 
beheld  in  Miss  Iloneywood  the  lovely  Adela.  She  seemed  to  enjoy 
his  surprise,  and  Mrs.  Marlowe,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  table, 
beckoned  him  to  her  with  an  arch  look ; he  flew  round,  and  she 
made  room  for  him  by  herself.  ‘‘Well,  my  friend,”  cried  she,  “do 
you  think  you  shall  find  the  general’s  fruit  as  tempting  as  mint  ?” 
“Ah!”  exclaimed  Oscar,  half-sighing,  half-smiling,  “Hesperian  fruit, 
I fear,  which  I can  never  hope  to  obtain.”  Adela’s  attention,  during 
breakfast,  was  too  much  engrossed  by  the  company  to  allow  her  to 
notice  Oscar  more  than  by  a few  hasty  words  and  smiles.  There 
being  no  dancing  till  the  evening,  the  company,  after  breakfast,  dis- 
persed according  to  their  various  inclinations. 

The  island  was  diversified  with  little  acclivities,  and  scattered  over 
with  wild  shrubs,  which  embalmed  the  air;  temporary  arbours  of  lau- 
rel, intermingled  with  lilies,  were  erected  and  laid  out  with  fruits, 
ices  and  other  refreshments ; upon  the  edge  of  the  water  a marquee 
was  pitched  for  the  regimental  band,  which  colonel  Belgrave  had 
politely  complimented  the  general  with ; a iiag  was  hoisted  on  it,  and 
upon  a low  eminence  a few  small  field-pieces  were  mounted;  attend 


102 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDEY. 


ants  were  every  where  disper-secl,  dressed  in  white  streamers,  orna- 
mented with  a profusion  of  orange-coloured  ribbons;  the  bntmen 
were  dressed  in  the  same  livery,  and  the  barges,  in  wliich  several  of 
the  party  were  to  visit  the  other  islands,  made  a picturesque  appear- 
ance with  their  gay  streamers  fluttering  in  the  breeze ; the  music  :*r  w 
softly  dying  away  upon  the  water,  now  grauially  swelling  on  the 
breeze,  and  echoed  back  by  the  neighbouring  hill,  added  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  scene. 

Oscar  followed  the  steps  of  Adela,  but  at  the  very  moment  on  which 
he  saw  her  disengaged  from  a large  party,  the  general  hallooed  after 
him  from  a shady  bank  on  which  he  sat.  Oscar  could  not  refuse  tlie 
summons,  and  as  he  approached,  the  general,  extending  Ins  hand,  gave 
him  a cordial  squeeze,  and  welcomed  him  as  the  son  of  a brave  man 
he  had  once  intimately  known.  I recollected  the  name  of  Fitzalan,’' 
said  he,  “ the  moment  I heard  it  mentioned,  and  had  the  happiness  of 
learning  from  Colonel  Belgrave  I was  not  mistaken  in  believing  you 
to  be  the  son  of  my  old  friend.”  lie  now  made  several  inquiries 
concerning  Fitzalan,  and  the  aflectionate  manner  in  which  he  men- 
tioned him  was  truly  pleasing  to  Oscar.  “ lie  had  once,”  he  said, 
saved  his  life  at  tlie  imminent  danger  of  his  own,  and  it  was  an  obli- 
gation, while  that  life  remained,  he  never  could  forget.” 

Like  Don  Guzman,  in  Gil  Bias,  the  general  delighted  in  fighting 
over  his  battles,  and  now  proceeded  to  enumerate  many  incidents 
which  happened  during  the  American  war,  when  he  and  Fitzalan 
served  in  the  same  regiment.  Oscar  could  well  have  dispensed  with 
such  an  enumeration;  but  the  general,  who  had  no  idea  tliat  he  was 
not  as  much  delighted  in  hearing  as  he  was  in  speaking,  still  went  on. 
Adela  had  been  watching  them  some  time ; her  patience  at  length,  like 
Oscar’s,  being  exhausted,  she  ran  forward,  and  told  her  fatlier  “ he 
must  not  detain  him  another  minute,  for  they  were  going  upon  the 
lake ; and  you  know  papa,”  cried  she,  ‘‘  against  we  come  back,  you 
can  have  all  your  battles  arranged  in  proper  form,  though  by  the  bye, 
I don’t  think  it  is  the  business  of  an  old  soldier  to  intimidate  a young 
one  with  such  dreadful  tales  of  iron  wars.”  The  general  called  lier 
a saucy  baggage,  kissed  her  with  rapture,  and  saw  her  trip  oil’  with  his 
young  friend,  who  seized  the  favourable  opportunity  to  engage  her 
for  the  first  set  in  the  evening.  About  four,  the  company  assembled 
in  the  abbey  to  dinner,  the  band  played  during  the  repast,  the  toasts 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


103 


were  proclaimed  by  sound  of  trumpet,  and  answered  by  an  immediate 
discharge  from  the  mount.  At  six,  the  ladies  returned  toWoodlawn 
to  change  their  dresses  for  the  ball,  and  now 

‘‘Awful  beauty  put  on  all  its  charms.” 


Tea  and  coffee  were  served  in  the  respective  rooms,  and  by  eleven 
the  ball-room  was  completely  crowded  with  company,  at  once  brilliant 
and  lively,  particularly  the  gentlemen,  who  were  not  a little  elevated 
by  the  generaFs  potent  libations  to  the  glorious  memory  of  him  whoso 
victory  they  were  celebrating. 

Adela,  adorned  in  a style  superior  to  what  Oscar  had  yet  seen, 
appeared  more  lovely  than  he  had  even  first  thought  her ; her  dress, 
which  was  of  thin  muslin  spangled,  was  so  contrived  as  to  give  a kind 
of  aerial  lightness  to  her  figure.  Oscar  reminded  her  of  the  promise 
of  the  morning  at  the  very  moment  the  colonel  approached  for  the 
purpose  of  engaging  her : she  instantly  informed  him  of  her  engage- 
ment to  Mr.  Fitzalan.  ^‘Mr.  Fitzalan!”  repeated  the  colonel,  with 
the  haughty  air  of  a man  who  thought  he  had  reason  to  be  offended : 
“he 'has  been  rather  precipitate  indeed,  but  though  we  may  envy, 
who  shall  wonder  at  his  anxiety  to  engage  Miss  Honeywood.” 

Dancing  now  commenced,  and  the  elegant  figure  of  Adela  never 
appeared  to  greater  advantage  : the  transported  general  watched  every 
movement,  and  “incomparable  by  Jove! — what  a sweet  angel  she 
is!'’  were  expressions  of  admiration  which  involuntarily  broke  from 
him  in  the  pride  and  fondness  of  his  heart.  Oscar  too,  whose  figure 
was  remarkably  fine,  shared  his  admiration,  and  he  declared  to  Colo- 
nel Belgrave,  he  did  not  think  the  world  could  produce  such  another 
couple : this  assertion  w^as  by  no  means  pleasing  to  the  colonel ; he 
possessed  as  much  vanity,  perhaps  as  ever  fell  to  the  share  oi  a young 
belle,  conscious  of  perfection,  and  detested  the  idea  of  having  any 
competitor  (at  least  such  a powerful  one  as  Oscar)  in  the  good  graces 
of  the  ladies.  Adela  having  concluded  the  dance,  complained  of 
fatigue,  and  retired  to  an  alcove,  whither  Oscar  followed  her;  the 
window  commanded  a view  of  the  lake,  the  little  island  and  the 
ruined  abbey;  the  moon  in  full  splendor,  cast  her  silvery  light  over 
all  those  objects,  giving  a softness  to  the  landscape  even  more  pleasing 
than  the  glowiug  channs  it  had  derived  from  the  radiancy  of  day 


104 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Adela  in  dancing  had  dropped  the  bandeau  from  her  hair,  Oscar  took 
it  up  and  still  retained  it ; Adela  now  stretched  forth  her  hand  to  take 
it ; ‘‘Allow  me,^^  cried  he,  gently  taking  her  hand,  “ to  keep  it;  to- 
morrow you  would  cast  it  away  as  a trifle,  but  I would  treasure  it  as 
a relique  of  inestimable  value ; let  me  have  some  memento  of  the 
charming  hours  I have  passed  to-day.'^  “ Oh ! a truce,^^  said  Adela, 
“ with  such  expressions,  (who  did  not,  however,  oppose  his  putting 
her  bandeau  in  his  bosom)  they  are  quite  commonplace,  and  have 
already  been  repeated  to  hundreds,  and  will  again,  I make  no  doubt/' 
— “ This  is  your  opinion  ? " — “Yes,  really." — “ Oh ! would  to  heaven," 
exclaimed  Oscar,  “I  durst  convince  you  how  mistaken  a one  it  is." 
Adela,  laughing,  assured  him  that  would  be  a difficult  matter.  Oscar 
gi*ew  pensive;  “I  think,"  cried  he,  “if  oppressed  by  misfortune,  I 
should  of  all  places  on  earth,  like  a seclusion  in  the  old  Abbey," 
“ Why,  really,"  said  Adela,  “it  is  tolerably  calculated  for  an  hermi- 
tage, and  if  you  take  a solitary  whim,  I beg  I may  be  apprised  of  it  in 
time,  as  I should  receive  peculiar  pleasure  in  preparing  your  mossy 
couch  and  frugal  fare."  “The  reason  for  my  liking  it,”  replied  he, 
“would  be  the  prospect  I should  have  from  it  of  Woodlawn."  “ And 
does  Woodlawn,"  asked  Adela,  “ contain  such  particular  charms,  as  to 
render  the  view  of  it  so  very  delightful?" 

At  this  moment  they  were  summoned  to  call  a new  dance ; a sum- 
mons, perhaps  not  agreeable  to  either,  as  it  interrupted  an  interesting 
t^te-^-tete.  The  colonel  engaged  Adela  for  the  next  set;  and 
though  Oscar  had  no  inclination  to  dance,  to  avoid  particularity,  he 
stood  up  with  a young  lady  who  was  esteemed  extremely  handsome. 
Adela,  as  if  fatigued,  no  longer  moved  with  animation,  and  suddenly 
interrupted  the  colonel  in  a gallant  speech  he  was  making  her,  to 
inquire  “ if  he  thought  Miss  O’N'eal  (Oscar’s  partner)  pretty — so  very 
pretty  as  she  was  generally  thought  ?"  The  colonel  was  too  keen  not 
to  discover  at  once  the  motive  which  suggested  this  inquiry.  “ Why, 
faith,"  cried  he,  after  examining  Miss  O’Neal  some  minutes  through 
an  opera  glass,  “ the  girl  has  charms,  but  so  totally  eclipsed  at  present, 
(looking  languishingly  at  Adela)  in  my  eyes,  that  I cannot  do  them 
the  justice  they  may  perhaps  merit ; Fitzalan,  however,  by  the  hom- 
age he  pays  her,  seems  as  if  he  would  make  up  for  the  deflciency  of 
every  other  person."  Adela  turned  pale,  and  took  the  flrst  opportu- 
nity of  demanding  her  bandeau  from  Oscar:  he,  smiling,  refused  it. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


10!> 


declaring  it  was  a trophy  of  the  happiness  he  had  enjoyed  that  dv,y, 
and  that  the  general  should  have  informed  her  a soldier  never  relin- 
quished such  a glorious  memento/^  “ Resign  mine/^  replied  Adela, 

and  procure  one  from  Miss  O’Neal/’ — “ No,”  cried  he,  “ I would  not 
pay  her  charms  and  my  own  sincerity  so  bad  a compliment  as  to  ask 
what  I should  not  in  the  least  degree  value.”  Adela’s  spirits  revived, 
find  she  repeated  her  request  no  more. 

The  dancing  continued  after  supper,  with  little  intermission,  till 
seven,  when  the  company  repaired  to  the  saloon  to  breakfast,  after 
which  they  dispersed. — The  general  particularly  and  affectionately 
bid  Oscar  farewedl,  and  charged  him  to  consider  Woodlawn  as  his 
head-quarters.  “Be  assured,”  said  the  good-natured  old  man,  “the 
son  of  my  brave,  worthy,  and  long-respected  friend  will  ever  be 
valuable  to  my  heart  and  welcome  to  my  home  ; and  would  to  heaven 
in  the  calm  evening  of  life,  your  father  and  I had  pitched  our  tents 
nearer  each  other.” 

From  this  period  Oscar  became  almost  an  inmate  of  his  house,  and 
the  general  shortly  grew  so  attached  to  him,  that  he  felt  unhappy  if 
deprived  of  his  society.  The  attentions  he  received  from  Oscar  were 
such  as  an  affectionate  son  would  pay  a tender  father ; he  supported 
his  venerable  friend  whenever  he  attempted  to  walk,  attended  him 
in  all  the  excursions  he  made  about  his  domain,  read  to  him  when 
he  wanted  to  be  lulled  to  sleep,  and  listened,  without  betraying  any 
symptoms  of  fatigue,  to  his  long,  and  often  truly  tiresome  stories  of 
former  battles  and  campaigns : in  paying  these  attentions  Oscar 
obeyed  the  dictates  of  gratitude  and  esteem,  and  also  gratified  a 
benevolent  disposition,  happy  in  being  able 

“To  rock  the  cradle  of  declining  age.” 

But  his  time  was  not  so  entirely  engrossed  by  the  general,  as  to 
prevent  his  having  many  hours  to  devote  to  Adela;  Avitli  her  he 
alternately  conversed,  read,  and  sung,  rambled  with  her  througli 
romantic  paths,  or  rode  along  the  beautiful  borders  of  Lough  Erne, 
was  almost  her  constant  escort  to  all  tlie  parties  she  went  to  in  the 
neiglibourhood,  and  frequently  accompanied  her  to  the  hovels  of 
wu’etchedness,  where  the  woes  which  extorted  tlie  soft  tear  of  com- 
miseration he  saw  amply  relieved  by  her  generous  hand;  adnr.ring 
her  as  he  did  before,  liow  impossible  was  it  for  Oscar,  in  tliosc  dan 

5+ 


106 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


gerous  tete-^-tetes,  to  resist  the  progress  of  a tender  passion — a pas- 
sion,  however,  confined  (as  far  at  least  as  silence  could  confine  it)  to 
his  own  heart. — The  confidence  which  he  thought  the  general  reposed 
iu  him,  by  allowing  such  an  intercourse  with  his  daughter,  was  too 
sacred  in  his  estimation  to  be  abused,  but  though  honour  resisted, 
liis  healtli  yielded  to  his  feelings. 

Adela,  from  delighting  in  company,  suddenly  took  a pensive  turn : 
she  declined  the  constant  society  she  had  hitherto  kept  up,  and 
seemed  in  a solitary  ramble  with  Oscar,  to  enjoy  more  pleasure  than 
the  gayest  party  appeared  to  afford  her ; the  favourite  spot  they 
visited  almost  every  evening,  was  a path  on  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
at  the  foot  of  a woody  mountain ; here  often  seated,  they  viewed  tho 
sun  sinking  behind  the  opposite  hills,  and  while  they  enjoyed  the 
benignancy  of  his  departing  beams  beheld  him  tinge  the  trembling 
waves  with  gold  and  purple;  the  low  whistle  of  Uie  ploughman 
returning  to  his  humble  cottage,  the  })laintive  carol  of  birds  from  the 
adjacent  grove,  and  the  low  bleating  of  the  cattle  from  pastures 
which  swelled  above  the  water,  all  these,  by  giving  the  softness  and 
most  pleasing  charms  of  nature  to  the  hour,  contrived  to  touch  yet 
more  sensibly,  hearts  already  prepossessed  in  favour  of  each  other. 
Adela  would  sometimes  sing  a little  simple  air,  and  carelessly  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  Oscar,  appear  to  enjoy  perfect  felicity ; not  so  poor 
Oscar ; the  feelings  of  his  soul  at  these  moments  trembled  on  his  lips, 
and  to  repress  them  was  great  agony. 

An  incident  soon  occurred  which  endeared  him  yet  more  to  the 
general ; driving  one  day  in  a low  plijcton  along  a road  cut  over  a 
mountain,  the  horses,  frightened  by  a sudden  firing  from  the  lake, 
began  rearing  in  the  most  frightful  manner ; the  carriage  stood  near 
a tremendous  precipice,  and  the  servants  appalled  by  terror,  liad  not 
power  to  move.  Oscar  saw  that  nothing  but  an  effort  of  desperate 
resolution  could  keep  them  from  destruction;  he  leaped  out,  and 
rushing  before  the  horses,  siezed  their  heads  at  the  imminent  hazard 
of  being  tumbled  dowm  the  precipice,  on  whose  very  verge  he  stood  : 
the  servants,  a little  relieved  from  their  terrror,  hastened  to  iiis 
assistance,  the  traces  were  cut,  and  the  poor  general,  wliose  infirmities 
bad  weakened  his  spirits,  conveyed  home  in  almost  a state  of  insensi- 
bility. Adela,  perceiving  him  from  her  dressing-room  window,  fiew 
down,  and,  learning  his  danger,  fell  upon  his  neck  in  an  agony  of  min' 


107 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

gled  joy  and  terror ; her  caresses  soon  revived  him,  and  as  he  returned 
them,  his  eyes  eagerly  sought  his  deliverer.  Oscar  stood  near,  with 
mingled  tenderness  and  anxiety  in  his  looks,  the  general  took  his 
hand,  and  whilst  he  pressed  it  along  with  Adela^s  to  his  bosom,  tears 
fell  on  them. — “You  are  both  my  children  I ^Mie  exclaimed ; “the 
children  of  my  love,  and  from  your  felicity  I must  derive  mine.^' 
This  expression  Oscar  conceived  to  be  a mere  effusion  of  gratitude, 
little  thinking  what  a project  relative  to  him  had  entered  the  gene- 
ral's head,  who  had  first,  however,  consulted  and  learned  from  his 
daughter  it  would  be  agreeable  to  her.  This  generous,  some  will  say 
romantic  old  man,  felt  for  Oscar  the  most  unbounded  love  and  grati- 
tude, and  as  the  best  proof  of  this,  he  resolved  to  bestow  on  this 
young  soldier  his  rich  and  lovely  heiress,  who  had  acknowledged  to 
her  father  her  predilection  for  him.  He  knew  both  his  birth  to  be 
noble,  his  disposition  amiable,  and  his  spirit  brave ; besides,  by  this 
union  he  should  secure  the  society  of  Adela ; he  Avished  her  married, 
yet  dreaded,  whenever  that  event  took  place,  he  should  be  deprived 
of  her ; but  Oscar,  he  supposed,  bound  to  him  by  gratitude,  would, 
unlike  others,  accede  to  his  wishes  of  residing  at  Woodlawn  during 
his  lifetime : his  project  he  resolved  on  communicating  to  Colonel 
Belgrave  Avhom,  on  Oscar’s  account  he  regarded,  as  Oscar  had  said 
(what  indeed  he  believed)  that  he  was  partly  indebted  to  him  for  his 
commission. 

What  a thunder  stroke  was  this  to  Belgrave,  who  arrived  at  Wood- 
lawn  the  morning  after  the  resolution  was  finally  settled,  and  was 
asked  to  accompany  the  general  about  a little  business,  to  the  sum- 
mer-house in  the  garden ; poor  Oscar  trembled ; he  felt  a presenti- 
ment he  should  be  the  subject  of  discourse,  and  had  no  doubt  but 
the  general  meant  to  complain  to  Colonel  Belgrave,  as  a person  who 
had  some  authority  over  him,  about  his  great  particularity  to  Miss 
Honeywood. 

Kage,  envy,  and  surprise,  kept  the  colonel  silent  some  minutes  after 
the  general  had  ended  speaking ; dissimulation  then  came  to  his  aid, 
and  he  attempted,  though  in  faltering  accents,  to  express  his  admira- 
tion of  such  generosity ; yet  to  bestoAV  such  a treasure,  so  inestimable, 
on  such  a man,  when  so  many  of  equal  rank  and  fortune  sighed  for 
its  possession;  upon  a man  too,  or  rather  a boy,  from  Avhose  age  it 
might  be  expected,  his  affections  would  bo  variable.  “Let  me  teb 


103 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


you,  colonel, said  the  general,  hastily  interrupting  him,  and  striking 
his  stick  upon  the  ground,  as  he  arose  to  return  to  the  house,  there 
can  be  but  little  danger  of  his  affections  changing,  when  sue  a a girl 
as  Adela  is  his  wife ; so  touch  no  more  upon  that  subject,  i entreat 
you ; but  you  must  break  the  affair  to  the  young  fellow,  for  l should 
be  in  such  a confounded  flurry,  I should  set  all  in  confusion,  and  beat 
an  alarm  at  the  first  onset.^^ 

The  gloom  and  embarrassment  which  appeared  in  the  countenance 
of  the  colonel,  filled  Oscar  with  alarms,  he  imagined  them  excited  by 
friendship  for  him ; after  what  the  general  had  said,  he  sighed  to 
hear  narticulars,  and  longed  for  the  first  time  to  quit  Woodlawn. — > 
The  colonel  was  indeed  in  a state  of  torture ; he  had  long  meditated 
the  conquest  of  Adela,  whose  fortune  and  beauty  rendered  her  a truly 
desirable  object;  to  resign  her  without  one  effort  of  cii  cum  venting 
Oscar,  was  not  to  be  thought  of : to  blast  his  promised  joys,  even  if 
it  did  not  lead  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  own  wishes,  he  felt 
would  give  him  some  comfort,  and  he  resolved  to  leave  no  means 
untried  for  so  doing. 

They  set  off  early  in  the  morning  for  Enniskellen,  and  'Belgrave 
sent  his  servant  on  before  them,  that  there  might  be  no  restraint  on 
the  conversation  he  found  Oscar  inclined  to  begin. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Sincerity  I 

Tliou  first  of  virtues,  let  no  mortal  leave 

Thy  onward  path,  although  the  earth  should  gape. 

And  from  the  gulf  of  hell,  destruction  cry 
To  take  dissimulation’s  winding  way. 

Douglas. 

“Well,  colonel,”  said  Oscar,  “I  fancy  I was  not  mistaken  in  think- 
ing the  general  wanted  to  speak  with  you  concerning  me,  I am  con- 
vinced you  will  not  conceal  any  particulars  of  a conversation  it  may 
be  so  essential  to  my  honour  to  hear.”  “ Why,  faith,”  cried  the  col- 
onel, dehghted  to  commence  his  operations,  “ he  was  making  a kind 
of  complaint  about  you,  tliough  he  acknowledges  you  a brave  lad, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  -ABBEY. 


109 


yet  hang  him,  he  has  not  generosity  enough  to  reward  that  bravery 
with  his  daughter  or  any  of  her  treasure.^^ — “ Heaven  is  my  witness ! 
exclaimed  the  unsuspicious  Oscar,  “ I never  aspired  to  either ; I 
always  knew  my  passion  for  his  daughter  as  hopeless  as  fervent,  and 
my  esteem  for  him  as  disinterested  as  sincere ; I would  have  sooner 
died  than  abused  the  confidence  he  reposed  in  me  by  revealing  my 
attachment;  I see,  however,  in  future  I must  be  an  exile  toWood- 
lawn.^^  ‘‘Not  so,  neither,^^  replied  the  colonel,  “only  avoid  such 
particularity  to  the  girl : I believe  in  my  soul  she  has  more  pride 
than  susceptibility  in  her  nature ; in  your  next  visit,  therefore,  which 
for  that  purpose  I would  have  you  soon  make,  declare,  in  a cavalier 
manner,  your  affections  were  engaged  previous  to  your  coming  to 
Ireland ; this  declaration  will  set  all  to  rights  with  the  general,  he 
will  no  longer  dread  you  on  his  daughter’s  account,  you  will  be  as 
welcome  as  ever  to  Woodlawn,  and  enjoy  during  your  continuance  in 
the  country,  the  society  you  have  hitherto  been  accustomed  to.” 
“ No,”  said  Oscar,  “ I cannot  assert  so  great  a falsehood.” — “ How 
ridiculous,”  replied  the  colonel:  “for  heaven’s  sake,  my  dear  boy, 
drop  such  romantic  notions ; I should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  desire  you  to  invent  a falsehood  which  could  injure  any  one,  but 
no  priest  in  Christendom  would  blame  you  for  this.”  “ And  suppose 
I venture,  what  will  it  do,  but  bind  faster  round  my  heart  chains 
already  too  galling,  and  destroy  in  the  end  all  remains  of  peace.” 

“ Faith,  Fitzalan,”  said  the  colonel,  “ by  the  time  you  have  had  a 
few  more  love  affairs  with  some  of  the  pretty  girls  of  this  kingdom, 
you  will  talk  no  more  in  this  way:  consider  (and  be  not  too  scru- 
pulous) how  disagreeable  it  will  be  to  resign  the  general’s  friendship, 
and  the  pleasing  society  you  enjoyed  at  "Woodlawn;  besides,  it  will 
appear  strange  to  those  who  knew  your  former  intimacy ; in  honour 
too  you  are  bound  to  do  as  I desire  you,  for  should  the  girl  have 
been  imprudent  enough  to  conceive  an  attachment  for  you,  this  will 
certainly  remove  it,  for  pride  would  not  allow  its  continuance  after 
hearing  of  a favourite  rival,  and  the  general  will  be  essentially  served.” 
“ My  dear  colonel,”  said  Oscar,  his  eyes  suddenly  sparkling,  “ do  you 
think  she  has  been  imprudent  enough  to  conceive  a partiality  for 
me?”  /‘I  am  sure,”  said  the  colonel,  “that  is  a question  I cannot 
positively  answer;  but  to  give  my  opinion,  I think  from  her  gay 
unembarrassed  manner,  she  has  not.”  “I  suppose  not,  indeed,"  cried 


no  CHILDREN  OF  TnE  ABBEY 

Oscar,  mournfully  sighing,  “why  then  should  I be  a guilty  of  a false-, 
hood  for  a person  who  is  already  indifferent  to  me  “I  have  told 
you  my  reason, replied  the  colonel  coldly,  “ do  as  you  please/' 
They  were  now  both  silent,  but  the  conversation  was  soon  renewed, 
and  many  arguments  passed  on  both  sides.  Oscar's  heart  secretly 
favoured  the  colonel's  plan,  as  it  promised  the  indulgence  of  Adela's 
society ; to  be  an  exile  from  Woodlawn  was  insupportable  to  his 
thoughts,  reason  yielded  to  the  vehemence  of  passion,  and  he  at  last 
fell  into  the  snare  the  perfidious  Belgrave  had  spread;  thus  by  a 
deviation  from  truth,  forfeiting  the  blessing  a bounteous  providence 
had  prepared  for  him. 

Oh  ! never  let  the  child  of  integrity  be  seduced  from  the  plain  and 
undeviating  path  of  sincerity ; oh  I never  let  him  hope  by  illicit 
means  to  attain  a real  pleasure;  the  hope  of  obtaining  any  good 
through  such  means  will  like  a meteor  of  the  night,  allure  but  to 
deceive. 

Soon  after  this  fatal  promise  to  the  colonel,  a self-devoted  victim, 
he  accompanied  him  to  Woodlawn : on  their  arrival  Miss  Honey  wood 
was  in  the  garden,  and  Oscar  trembling  went  to  seek  her ; he  found 
her  sitting  in  a flower-woven  arbour 

“ Herself  the  fairest  flower  ” 

Hever  had  she  looked  more  lovely ; the  natural  bloom  of  her 
cheeks  were  heigliteiied  by  tlio  heat,  and  glowed  beneath  tlie  careless 
curls  that  fell  over  them,  and  her  eyes,  the  moment  slie  beheld  Oscar, 
beamed  wdth  the  softest  tenderness,  the  most  bewitching  sensibility. 
“My  dear!  dear  Fitzalan!”  cried  she,  throwing  aside  the  book  she 
had  been  reading,  and  extending  her  hand,  “ I am  glad  to  see  you,  I 
hope  you  are  come  to  take  up  your  residence  for  some  time  at  Wood- 
lawn.”  “You  hope,”  repeated  Oscar,  mournfully,  “ I do  indeed!  but 
bless  me,  what  is  the  matter,  you  are  so  pale  and  thin,  you  look  but 
the  shadow  of  yourself,  or  rather  like  a despairing  sheplierd,  ready  to 
hang  himself  on  the  first  willow  tree  he  meets.”  “ I am  indeed 
unhappy!”  cried  Oscar,  “nor  will  you  wonder  at  my  being  so,  wlicn 
I acknowledge  I at  this  present  time  feel  a passion  which  I must 
believe  hopeless.”  “ Hopeless ! well  now  I insist  on  being  jmur  con- 
fidant, and  then  (smiling  somewhat  archly)  I shall  see  what  reason 
you  have  to  despair.”  “Agreed,”  exclaimed  Oscar;  “and  pxw  to 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Ill 


my  story — then  pausing  a minute,  he  started  up,  *‘no/^  continued 
he,  ‘‘  I find  it  impossible  to  tell  it — let  this  dear,  this  estimaole  object, 
(drawing  a miniature  of  his  sister  from  his  bosom),  speak  for  me  and 
declare,  whether  he  who  loves  such  a being  can  ever  lose  that  love, 
or  help  being  wretched  at  knowing  it  is  without  hope.^^  Adela 
snatched  it  hastily  from  him,  and  by  a sudden  start  betrayed  her 
surprise:  words  are  indeed  inadequate  to  express  her  heart-rending 
emotions,  as  she  contemplated  the  beautiful  countenance  of  her 
imaginary  rival ; and  was  Oscar  then — that  Oscar  whom  she  adored 
— whose  happiness  she  had  hoped  to  constitute — whose  fortune  she 
delighted  to  think  she  should  advance — really  attached  to  another ; 
alas  too  true  he  was — of  the  attacliment  she  held  a convincing  proof 
in  her  hand,  she  examined  it  again  and  again,  and  in  its  mild  beauties 
thought  she  beheld  a striking  proof  of  the  superiority  over  the  charms 
she  herself  possessed ; the  roses  forsook  her  cheeks,  a mist  overspread 
her  eyes,  and  with  a shivering  horror  she  dropped  it  from  her  hand. 
Oscar  had  quitted  the  arbour  to  conceal  his  agonies.  “Well,”  said 
he,  now  returning,  with  forced  calmness,  “is  it  not  worthy  of  inspir- 
ing the  passion  I feel?”  Unable  to  answer  him,  she  could  only  point 
to  the  place  where  it  lay,  and  hastened  to  the  house.  “Sweet 
image,”  cried  Oscar,  taking  it  from  the  ground,  “ what  an  unworthy 
purpose  have  I made  you  answer — alas!  all  is  now  over — Adela — my 
Adela! — is  lost  for  ever — lost — ah  heavens!  had  I ever  hopes  of 
possessing  her — Oh  no!  to  such  happiness  never  did  I dare  to  look 
forvrard.”  Adela,  on  reaching  the  parlour  which  opened  into  tlio 
garden,  found  her  father  there;  “Ah!  you  little  baggage,  do  I not 
deserve  a kiss  for  not . disturbing  your  tete-a-tete?  Where  is  tliat 
young  rogue  Uitzalan?”  “I  beg,  I entreat,  sir,”  said  Adela,  wltose 
tears  could  no  longer  be  restoined,  “you  will  never  mention  hiin 
again  to  me,  too  much  lias  already  been  said  about  him.”  “ Xay, 
pr’ytliee,  my  little  girl,”  exclaimed  the  general,  regarding  her  wiih 
surprise,  “ cease  thy  sighs  and  tears,  and  tell  me  what’s  the  matter.” 
“ I am  hurt,”  replied  she,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  “ that  so  much 
has  been  said  about  Mr.  Fitzalan,  who  I can  never  regard  in  any 
other  light  than  that  of  a common  acquaintance.”  The  colonel,  who 
had  purposely  lingered  about  the  wood,  now  entered.  Adela  started 
and  precipitately  retreated  through  another  door: — “Faith,  my  deaf 
coicnel,”  said  the  general,  “I  am  glad  you  are  come,  the  boy  and  gir 


ll: 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY. 


have  had  a little  skirmish,  but  like  other  love  quarrels,  I suppose  it 
will  soon  be  made  up,  so  let  me  know  how  the  lad  bore  the  announce- 
ment of  his  good  fortune/^  ‘‘  It  fills  a rational  mind  with  regret,^^ 
exclaimed  the  colonel,  seating  himself  gravely,  and  inwardly  rejoicing 
at  the  success  of  his  stratagem,  “to  find  such  a fatality  prevalent 
among  mankind,  as  makes  them  reject  a profiered  good,  and  sigh  for 
that  which  is  unattainable ; like  wayward  children  neglecting  their 
sports  to  pursue  a rainbow,  and  weeping  as  the  airy  pageant  mocks 
their  grasp/^  “ Very  true,  indeed,^^  said  the  general,  “ very  excellent 
upon  my  word ; I doubt  if  the  chaplain  of  a regiment  ever  delivered 
such  a pretty  piece  of  morality ; but,  dear  colonel,”  laying  his  hand 
on  his  knee,  “ what  did  the  boy  say  ?”  “ I am  sorry,  sir,”  he  replied, 

“that  what  I have  just  said  is  so  applicable  to  him;  he  acknowledged 
the  lady’s  merit,  extolled  her  generosity,  but  pleaded  a prior  attach- 
ment against  accepting  your  offer,  which  even  one  more  exalted 
would  not  tempt  him  to  forego,  though  he  knoAvs  not  wdi ether  he 
Avill  ever  succeed  in  it.”  “The  devil  he  did?”  exclaimed  the  general, 
as  soon  as  rage  and  surprise  would  allow  him  to  speak,  “ the  little 
impertinent  puppy  ; the  ungrateful  young  dog ! a prior  attachment — 
reject  my  girl ! — my  Adela — who  has  had  such  suitors  already  : so,  I 
suppose  I shall  have  the  w^hole  affair  blazed  about  the  country;  I 
shall  hear  from  every  quarter  how  my  daughter  Avas  refused,  and  by 
whom  ? — why  by  a little  Ensign,  whose  Avhole  fortune  lies  in  his 
sword  knot — A fine  game  I have  played,  truly ; but  if  the  jackanapes 
opens  his  lips  about  the  matter,  may  powder  be  my  poison  if  I do  not 
trim  his  jacket  for  him.”  “ Dear  general,”  said  the  colonel,  “ you 
may  depend  on  his  honour,  but  even  supposing  he  did  mention  the 
Jtffair,  surely  you  would  knoAV  it  would  not  be  in  his  poAver  to  injure, 
Miss  IIoneyAvood — amiable — accomplished — in  short,  possessed,  as 
she  is,  of  every  perfection,  I knoAV  men,  at  least  one  man,  of  con^^c- 
quence,  both  from  birth  and  fortune,  who  has  long  sighed  for  her, 
and  Avho  Avould,  if  he  receh^ed  the  least  encouragement,  openly  avoAv 
his  sentiments.”  “ TTell,”  cried  the  general,  still  panting  for  breath, 
“ Ave  Avill  talk  about  him  at  some  future  time,  for  I am  resolved  on 
soon  having  my  little  girl  married,  and  to  her  OAvn  liking  too.” 

Oscar  and  Adela  did  not  appear  till  dinner  time;  both  had  been 
endeavouring  to  regain  composure,  but  poor  Oscar  had  been  far  leso 
Buocessful  than  Adela,  in  the  attempt;  not  that  she  loAed  less,  foi 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


113 


ID  deed  her  passion  for  him  was  of  the  tenderest  nature,  and  she  flat- 
tered herself  with  having  inspired  one  equally  ardent  in  his  breast; 
sanctioned  by  her  father,  she  thought  it  would  constitute  the  felicity 
of  their  lives,  and  looked  forward  with  a generous  delight  to  th.it 
period  when  she  should  render  her  beloved  Fitzalan  prosperous  and 
independent;  the  disappointment  she  experienced,  as  the  first  she 
had  ever  met,  sat  heavy  on  her  heart,  and  the  gay  visions  of  youth 
were  in  a moment  clouded  by  melancholy ; but  her  pride  was  as 
great  as  her  sensibility,  and  as  its  powerful  impulse  pervaded  her 
mind,  she  resolved  to  afibrd  Oscar  no  triumph,  by  letting  him  wit- 
ness her  dejection ; she  therefore  wiped  away  all  traces  of  tears  from 
her  eyes,  checked  the  vain  sigh  that  struggled  at  her  heart,  and 
dressed  herself  with  as  much  attention  as  ever ; her  heavy  eyes,  her 
colourless  cheeks,  however,  denoted  her  feelings;  she  tried,  as  she 
sat  at  table  to  appear  cheerful,  but  in  vain,  and  on  the  removal  of  the 
cloth  immediately  retired,  as  no  ladies  were  present. 

The  general  was  a stranger  to  dissimulation,  and  as  he  no  longer 
felt,  he  no  longer  treated  Oscar  with  usual  kindness;  when  pale^ 
trembling,  and  disordered,  he  appeared  before  him,  he  received  him 
with  a stern  frown,  an  air  scarcely  complaisant ; this  increased  the 
agitation  of  Oscar : every  feeling  of  his  soul  was  in  commotion,  he 
was  no  longer  the  life  of  the  company ; their  happiness  and  mirth 
formed  a striking  contrast  to  his  misery  and  dejection;  he  felt  a for- 
lorn wretch,  a mere  child  of  sorrow  and  dependence ; scalding  tears 
dropped  from  him  as  he  bent  over  his  plate,  he  could  have  cursed 
himself  for  such  weakness;  fortunately  it  was  unnoticed.  In  losing 
the  general’s  attention  he  seemed  to  lose  that  of  his  guests ; his  situ- 
ation grew  too  irksome  to  be  borne ; he  rose  unregarded,  and  a secret 
impulse  led  him  to  the  drawing  room,  llere  Adela,  oppressed  by  the 
dejection  of  lier  low  spirits,  had  flung  herself  upon  a couch,  and  gradu- 
ally sunk  into  a slumber.  Oscar  stepped  lightly  forward,  and  gazed  on 
her  with  a tenderness  as  exquisite  as  a mother  would  have  felt  in 
viewing  her  sleeping  babe.  Her  cheek,  which  rested  on  her  fair 
hand,  was  tinged  with  a blush,  by  the  reflection  of  a crimson  curtain 
through  which  the  sun  darted,  and  the  traces  of  a tear  were  yet  dis- 
cernible upon  it. — “Kever!”  cried  Oscar,  with  folded  hands,  as  he 
hung  over  the  interesting  figure,  “ never  may  any  tear,  except  tli<-i 
cf  soft  sensibility  for  the  woes  of  others,  bedew  the  cheek  of  Adela 


114  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

—porfecit  as  her  goodness  be  her  felicity — may  every  blessing  sne  nov? 
enjoys  be  rendered  permanent  by  that  power  who  smiles  benignly 
upon  innocence  like  hers. — Oh ! Adela,  he  who  now  prays  for  your 
felicity,  never  will  lose  your  idea  ; he  will  cherish  it  in  his  heart,  to 
meliorate  his  sorrows ; and,  from  the  dreary  path  which  may  be 
appointed  for  him  to  tread,  sometimes  look  back  to  happier  scenes.'^ 
Adela  began  to  stir,  she  murmured  out  some  inarticulate  words,  and 
suddenly  rising  from  the  couch,  beheld  the  motionless  form  of  Fitz- 
alan ; haughtily  regarding  him,  she  asked  the  meaning  of  such  an 
intrusion.  “ I did  not  mean,  indeed,  to  intrude,^’  said  he,  but  when 
I came  and  found  you,  can  you  wonder  at  my  being  fascinated  to  the 
spot  ?”  The  plaintive  tone  of  his  voice  sunk  deep  into  Adela’s  heart ; 
she  siglied  heavily,  and  turning  away  seated  herself  in  the  window. 
Oscar  followed ; he  forgot  the  character  he  had  assumed  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  gently  seizing  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  bosom:  at  this 
critical  minute,  when  mutual  sympathy  appearing  on  the  point  of 
triumphing  over  duplicity,  the  door  opened,  and  Colonel  Belgrave 
appeared.  From  the  instant  of  Oscar’s  departure  he  had  been  on 
thorns  to  follow  him,  fearful  of  the  consequences  of  a t^te-a-t^te,  and 
was  attended  by  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen. 

Oscar  was  determined  on  not  staying  another  night  at  Woodlawn, 
and  declared  his  intention  by  asking  Colonel  Belgrave  if  he  had  any 
commands  for  Enniskellen,  w^hither  he  meant  to  return  immediately. 

Why,  hang  it,  boy,”  cried  the  general,  in  a rough  grumbling  voice, 
“since  you  have  staid  so  long,  you  may  as  well  stay  the  night;  the 
clouds  look  heavy  over  the  lake,  and  threaten  a storm.”  “Ko  sir!” 
said  Oscar,  colonriug,  and  speaking  in  the  agitation  of  his  heart,  “the 
raging  of  a tempest  would  not  make  me  stay.”  Adela  sighed,  but 
pride  prevented  her  speaking.  Fitzalan  approached  her.  “Miss 
Honey  wood,”  said  he — ^lie  stopped — his  voice  was  quite  slided. 
Adela,  equally  unable  to  speak,  could  only  encourage  him  to  proceed 
by  a mild  glance.  “ Lest  I should  not,”  resumed  he,  “ have  the  happi- 
ness of  again  visiting  Woodlawm,  I cannot  neglect  this  opportunity  of 
assuring  you,  that  the  attention,  the  obligations  I have  received  in  it, 
never  can  be  forgotten  by  me ; and  that  the  severest  pang  my  heart 
could  possibly  experience,  would  result  from  thinking  I lost  any  pan 
of  the  friendship  you  and  the  general  honoured  me  with.’^  Adela 
bent  her  head,  and  Oscar,  seeing  that  she  either  'would  not  or  could 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


115 


not  speak,  bowed  to  tber  general,  and  hurried  from  the  room ; the 
tears  he  had  painfully  suppressed  gushed  forth,  and  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs  he  leaned  against  tlie  banisters  for  support ; while  he  cast 
his  eyes  around,  as  if  bidding  a melancholy  farewell  to  the  scene  of 
former  happiness,  a hasty  footstep  advanced';  he  started,  and  was 
precipitatelyretreating,  when  the  voice  of  the  butler  stopped  him; 
this  was  an  old  veteran,  much  attached  to  Oscar,  and  his  usual 
attendant  in  all  his  fowling  and  fishing  parties ; as  he  waited  at  tea, 
he  heard  Oscar’s  declaration  of  departing  with  surprise,  and  followed 
him  for  the  purpose  of  expressing  that  and  his  concern  : — “ Why,  lord 
DOW,  Mr.  Fitzalan,”  cried  he,  ‘‘what  do  you  mean  by  leaving  us  so 
oddly?  But  if  you  are  so  positive  of  going  to  Enniskellen  to-night, 
let  me  order  a standard  to  be  prepared  for  you.”  Oscar  for  some 
time  had  had  the  command  of  the  stables ; but  knowing  as  he  did, 
that  he  had  lost  the  general’s  favour,  he  could  no  longer  think  of 
taking  those  liberties  which  kindness  had  once  invited  him  to:  ho 
wrung  the  hand  of  his  humble  friend,  and  snatching  his  hat  from  the 
hall  table,  darted  out  of  the  hoiis'e : he  ran  till  he  came  to  the 
mountain  path,  on  the  margin  of  the  lake;  “Never,”  cried  he,  dis- 
tractedly striking  his  breast,  “ shall  1 see  her  again ! oh ! never,  never 
my  beloved  Adela ! shall  your  unfortunate  Fitzalan  wander  with  you 
through  those  enchanting  scenes ; oh ! how  transient  was  his  gleam 
of  felicity !” 

Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  his  feelings  he  fell  into  a kind  of 
torpid  state  against  the  side  of  the  mountain;  the  shadows  of  the 
night  were  thickened  by  a coming  storm,  a cold  blast  howled 
amongst  the  hills,  and  agitated  the  gloomy  waters  of  the  lake;  the 
rain,  accompanied  by  sleet,  began  to  fall,  but  the  tempest  raged  unre- 
garded around  the  child  of  sorrow,  the  wanderer  of  the  night. — 
Adela  alone 


“ Heard,  felt,  or  seen,” 

pervaded  every  thought.  Some  fishermen  approaching  to  secure 
their  boats,  drove  him  from  the  situation,  and  he  flew  to  the  woods 
which  screaned  one  side  of  the  house;  by  the  time  he  reached  it  the 
storm  had  abated,  and  the  moon,  with  a watery  lustre,  breaking 
through  the  clouds,  rendered,  by  her  feeble  rays,  the  surrounding  and 
beloved  scenes  just  visible. 


116 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Adela^s  chamber  looked  into  the  wood,  and  the  light  from  it  riveted 
Oscar  to  a spot  exactly  opposite  the  window.  “ My  Adela,^^  he  ex- 
claimed, extending  his  arms  as  if  she  would  have  heard  and  flown 
into  them,  then  dejectedly  dropping  them,  “ she  thinks  not  on  such  a 
forlorn  wretch  as  me  : oh ! what  comfort  to  lay  my  poor  distracted 
head  for  one  moment  on  her  soft  bosom,  and  hear  her  sweet  voice 
speak  pity  to  my  tortured  heart.^^  Sinking  with  weakness  from  the 
conflicts  of  his  mind,  he  sought  an  old  roofless  root  house  in  the  centre 
of  the  wood,  where  he  and  Adela  had  often  sat. 

‘‘Well,”  said  he,  as  he  flung  himself  on  the  damp  ground,  “many 
a brave  fellow  has  had  a worse  bed,  but  God  particularly  protects 
the  unsheltered  head  of  the  soldier,  and  afflicted.”  The  twittering 
of  the  birds  roused  him  from  an  uneasy  slumber,  or  rather  lethargy, 
into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  starting  up,  he  hastened  to  the  road, 
fearful,  as  day  was  beginning  to  dawn,  of  being  seen  by  any  of 
General  Honeywood’s  workmen : it  was  late  ere  he  arrived  at  Enni- 
skellen,  and  before  he  gained  his  room  he  was  met  by  some  of  the 
officers,  who  viewed  him  with  evident  astonishment ; his  regimentals 
were  quite  spoiled,  his  fine  hair,  from  which  the  rain  had  washed  all 
the  powder,  hung  dishevelled  about  his  shoulders,  the  feather  of  his 
hat  was  broken,  and  the  disorder  of  his  countenance  was  not  less 
suspicious  than  that  of  his  dress  ; to  their  inquiries  he  stammered  out 
something  of  a fall,  and  extricated  himself  with  difficulty  from  them. 

In  an  obscure  village,  fifteen  miles  from  Enniskellen,  a detachment 
of  the  regiment  lay ; the  officer  who  commanded  it  disliked  his  situa- 
tion extremely,  but  company  being  irksome  to  Oscar,  it  was  just 
such  an  one  as  he  desired,  and  he  obtained  leave  to  relieve  him ; the 
agitation  of  his  mind,  aided  by  the  effects  of  the  storm  he  had  been 
exposed  to,  was  too  much  for  his  constitution;  immediately  on 
arriving  at  his  new  quarters  he  was  seized  with  a violent  fever,  an 
officer  was  obliged  to  be  sent  to  do  duty  in  his  place,  and  it  was  long 
ere  any  symptom  appeared  which  could  flatter  those  wlio  attended 
him  witli  hopes  of  recovery ; when  able  to  sit  up  lie  was  ordered  to 
return  to  Enniskellen,  where  he  could  be  immediately  under  the  care 
of  the  regimental  surgeon. 

Oscar’s  servant  accompanied  him  in  the  carriage,  and  as  it  drove 
slowly  along  he  was  agreeably  surprised  by  a view  of  Mrs.  Marlowe’s 
orchard;  he  could  not  resist  the  wish  of  seeing  her  and  making 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


117 


inquiries  relative  to  the  inhabitants  of  Woodlawn  ; for  with  Mrs, 
Marlowe,  I should  previously  say,  he  had  not  only  formed  an  inti- 
macy, but  a sincere  friendship  ; she  was  a woman  of  the  most  pleasing 
manners,  and  to  her  superintending  care  Adela  was  indebted  for 
many  of  the  graces  she  possessed,  and  at  her  cottage  passed  many 
delightful  hours  with  Oscar. 

The  evening  was  far  advanced  wlien  Oscar  reached  the  orchard, 
and  leaning  on  his  servant  slowly  walked  up  the  hill.  Had  a spectre 
appeared  before  the  old  lady  she  could  not  have  seemed  more 
shocked  than  she  now  did  at  the  unexpected  and  emaciated  appear- 
ance of  her  young  friend — with  all  the  tenderness  of  a fond  mother, 
she  pressed  his  cold  hands  between  her  own,  and  seated  him  by  the 
cheerful  fire  which  blazed  on  her  hearth,  then  procured  him  refresh- 
ments, that,  joined  to  her  conversation,  a little  revived  liis  spirits; 
yet,  at  this  moment  the  recollection  of  the  first  interview  he  ever 
had  with  her,  recurred  with  pain  to  his  heart;  “Our  friends  at 
Woodland  I hope,”  cried  he,  he  paused — but  his  eyes  expressed  the 
inquiry  his  tongue  was  unable  to  make. — “ They  are  well  and  happy,” 
replied  Mrs.  Marlowe,  “ and  you  know,  I suppose,  of  all  that  has 
lately  happened  there.”  “Ko,  I know  nothing,  I am  as  one  awoke 
from  the  slumbers  of  the  grave.”  “Ere  I inform  you  then,”  cried 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  “ let  me,  my  noble  Oscar,  express  my  approbation,  my 
admiration,  of  your  conduct,  of  that  disinterested  nature  which  pre- 
ferred the  preservation  of  constancy  to  the  splendid  independency 
offered  to  your  acceptance.”  “What  splendid  independency  did  I 
refuse  ?”  asked  Oscar,  wildly  staring  at  her.  “ That  which  the  general 
offered.”  “The  general?”  “Yes,  and  appointed  Colonel  Belgrave 
to  declare  his  intentions.”  “ Oh,  heavens !”  exclaimed  Oscar,  starting 
from  his  chair,  “did  the  general  indeed  form  such  intentions,  and 
has  Belgrave  then  deceived  me ! he  told  me  my  attentions  to  Miss 
Honeywood  were  noticed  and  disliked — he  filled  my  soul  witli 
unutterable  anguish,  and  persuaded  me  to  a falsehood  which  has 
plunged  me  into  despair!”  “ He  is  a monster,”  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
“ and  you  are  a victim  to  his  treachery.”  “ Oh,  no ! I will  fly  to  the 
general  and  open  my  whole  soul  to  him,  at  his  feet  I will  declare  the 
false  ideas  of  honour  which  misled  me,  I shall  obtain  his  forgiveness 
and  Adela  will  yet  be  mine.”  “ Alas ! my  child,”  said  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
fitopping  him  as  he  Wo^  hurrying  from  the  room,  “ it  is  now  too  late- 


118 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


Adela  can  never  be  yours,  she  is  married,  and  married  unto  Bel- 
grave/^  Oscar  staggered  back  a few  paces,  uttered  a deep  groan, 
and  fell  senseless  at  her  feet.  Mrs.  Morlowe^s  cries  brought  in  his 
servant  as  well  as  her  own  to  her  assistance’:  he  was  laid  upon  a bed, 
but  it  was  long  ere  he  showed  any  signs  of  recovery : at  length,  open- 
ing his  heavy  eyes,  he  sighed  deeply,  and  exclaimed,  “ She  is  lost  to 
me  forever!^' 

The  servants  were  dismissed,  and  the  tender-hearted  Mrs.  Mar- 
lowe knelt  beside  him.  “Oli,  my  friend,”  said  she,  “my  heart 
sympathizes  in  ^miir  sorrow,  but  ’tis  from  your  own  fortitude,  more 
than  my  sympathy,  you  must  now  derive  resources  of  support.” 
“Oh  horrible!  to  know  the  cup  of  happiness  was  at  my  lips,  and 
that  it  was  my  own  hand  dashed  it  from  me.”  “Such,  alas!”  said 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  sighing  as  if  touched  at  the  moment  with  a similar 
pang  of  self-regret,  “ is  the  wayw^ardness  of  mortals ; too  often  do 
they  deprive  themselves  of  the  blessings  of  a bounteous  Providence 
by  their  own  folly  and  impruderice-~oh ! my  friend,  born  as  you 
were,  with  a noble  ingenuity  of  soul,  never  let  that  soul  again  be 
sullied  by  the  smallest  deviation  from  sincerity.”  “ Do  not  aggra- 
vate my  sulferings,”  said  Oscar,  “ by  dwelling  on  my  error.”  “N’o — 
I would  sooner  die  than  be  guilty  of  such  barbarity ; but  admonition 
never  sinks  so  deeply  on  the  heart  as  in  the  hour  of  trial;  young, 
amiable  as  you  are,  life  teems,  I doubt  not,  with  various  blessings  for 
you — blessings  which  you  will  know  how  to  value  properly,  for  early 
disappointment  is  the  nurse  of  wisdom.”  “Alas!”  exclaimed  he, 
“ what  blessings  ?”  “These  at  least,”  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe,  “are  in 
your  power  the  peace,  the  happiness,  which  ever  proceeds  from  a 
mind  conscious  of  having  discharged  the  incumbent  duties  of  life, 
and  patiently  submitted  to  its  trials.”  “ But  do  you  think  I will 
calmly  submit  to  his  baseness?”  said  Oscar,  interrupting  her,  “ITo! 
Belgrave  shall  never  triumph  over  me  with  impunity!”  He  started 
from  the  bed,  and  rushing  into  the  outer  room,  snatched  his  sword 
from  the  table  on  which  he  had  flung  it  at  xAs  entrance  • Mrs.  Mar- 
lowe caught  his  arm  : “Rash  young  man!”  exclaimed  she,  “ whitlier 
would  you  go — is  it  to  scatter  ruin  and  desolation  around  you? 
Suppose  your  vengeance  was  gratified,  would  that  restore  your 
happiness?  Think  you  tliat  Adda,  the  child  of  virtue  and  propriety, 
would  over  notice  the  murderer  of  her  husband,  how  unworthy 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


119 


Boever  that  husband  may  be : or  that  the  old  general,  who  so  fondly 
planned  your  felicity,  would  forgive,  if  he  could  survive  the  evils  of 
his  house  occasioned  by  you  ? The  sword  dropped  from  the  trem- 
bling hand  of  Oscar ; “I  have  been  blamable,^^  cried  he,  “in  allow- 
ing myself  to  be  transported  to  such  an  effort  of  revenge ; I forgot 
everything  but  that ; and  as  to  my  own  life,  deprived  of  Adela,  it 
appears  so  gloomy  as  to  be  scarcely  worth  preserving.^^ 

Mi*a.  Marlowe  seized  this  moment  of  yielding  softness,  to  advise 
and  reason  with  him  : her  teare  mingled  with  his,  as  she  listened  to 
his  relation  of  Belgrave’s  perfidy ; tears  augmented  by  rejecting,  that 
Adela,  tlie  darling  of  her  care  and  affections,  was  also  a victim  to  it : 
she  convinced  Oscar,  however,  that  it  would  be  prudent  to  confine 
the  fatal  secret  to  their  own  breasts.  The  agitation  of  his  mind  was 
too  much  for  the  weak  state  of  his  health,  tlie  fever  returned,  and  lie 
felt  unable  to  quit  the  cottage ; Mrs.  Marlowe  prepared  a bed  for  him, 
trusting  he  would  soon  be  able  to  remove,  but  slie  was  disappointed, 
it  was  long  ere  Oscar  could  quit  the  bed  of  sickness ; she  w^atched 
over  him  with  maternal  tenderness,  w^hile  he,  like  a blasted  fiowmr, 
seemed  hastening  to  decay. 

The  general  was  stung  to  the  soul  by  the  rejection  of  his  offer, 
which  he  thought  would  have  inspired  the  soul  of  Oscar  with  rapture 
and  gratitude ; never  had  his  pride  been  so  severely  wounded,  never 
before  had  he  felt  humbled  in  his  own  eyes  : his  mortifying  refiec- 
tions  the  colonel  soon  found  means  to  remove,  by  the  most  delicate 
flattery  and  the  most  assiduous  attention,  assuring  the  general  that  his 
conduct  merited  not  the  censure,  but  the  applause  of  the  world ; the 
sophistry  which  can  reconcile  us  to  ourselves  is  truly  pleasing,  the 
colonel  gradually  becoming  a favourite,  and  when  he  insinuated  his 
attachment  for  Adela,  was  assured  he  should  have  all  the  general’s 
interest  with  her ; he  was  now  more  anxious  than  ever  to  have  her 
advantageously  settled ; there  was  something  so  humiliating  in  tho 
idea  of  her  being  rejected,  that  it  drove  him  at  times  almost  to  mad- 
ness : the  colonel  possessed  all  the  advantages  of  fortune,  but  these 
weighed  little  in  his  favour  with  the  general  (whose  notions  we  have 
already  proved  very  disinterested)  and  much  less  with  his  dauyhter  ; 
on  the  first  overture  about  him  she  requested  the  subject  might  be 
entirely  d’^opped,  the  mention  of  love  was  extremely  painful  to  her  . 
wounded  bj’  her  disappointment  in  the  severest  manner,  her  lieart 


120 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


required  time  to  heal  it,  her  feelings  delicacy  confined  to  her  own 
bosom,  but  her  languid  eyes  and  faded  cheeks  denoted  their  poig- 
nancy ; she  avoided  company,  and  was  perpetually  wandering 
througn  the  romantic  and  solitary  paths  which  she  and  Oscar  had 
trod  together ; here  more  than  ever  she  thought  of  him,  and  feared 
she  had  treated  her  poor  companion  unkindly  ; she  saw  him  oppressed 
with  sadness,  and  yet  she  had  driven  him  from  her  by  the  repul- 
sive coldness  of  her  manner ; a manner  too,  which,  from  its  being  so 
suddenly  assumed,  could  not  fail  of  conveying  an  idea  of  her  disap- 
pointment; this  hurt  her  delicacy  as  much  as  her  tenderness,  and 
she  would  have  given  worlds,  had  she  possessed  them,  to  recall  the 
time  when  she  could  have  afforded  consolation  to  Oscar,  and  con- 
vinced him,  that  solely  as  a friend  she  regarded  him.  The  colonel  was 
not  discouraged  by  her  coldness — ^he  was  in  the  habit  of  conquering 
difficulties,  and  doubted  not  he  should  overcome  any  she  threw  in  his 
way ; he  sometimes,  as  if  by  chance,  contrived  to  meet  her  in  her 
rambles ; his  -conversation  was  always  amusing,  and  confined  wuthin 
the  limits  she  had  prescribed,  but  his  eyes,  by  the  tenderest  expres- 
sion, declared  the  pain  he  suffered  from  this  prescription,  and 
secretly  pleased  Adela,  as  it  convinced  her  of  the  implicit  deference 
he  paid  to  her  will. 

Some  weeks  had  elapsed  since  Oscar’s  voluntary  exile  from  Wood- 
lavm,  and  sanguine  as  were  the  colonel’s  hopes,  he  found  without  a 
stratagem  they  would  not  be  realized,  at  least  as  soon  as  he  expected : 
fertile  in  invention,  he  was  not  long  in  concerting  one ; he  followed 
Adela  one  morning  into  the  garden,  and  found  her  reading  in  the 
arbour ; she  laid  aside  the  book  at  his  entrance,  and  they  chatted  for 
some  time  on  different  subjects ; the  colonel’s  servant  at  last  appeared 
with  a large  pacquet  of  letters,  which  he  presented  to  his  master, 
who;  with  an  hesitating  air,  was  about  putting  them  into  his  pocket, 
•when  Adela  prevented  him : make  no  ceremony,  colonel,”  said  she, 
‘‘  with  me,  I sliall  resume  my  books  till  you  have  perused  your  let- 
ters the  colonel  bowed  for  her  permission,  and  began ; her  attention 
was  soon  drawn  from  her  book  by  the  sudden  emotion  he  betrayed — 
he  started,  and  exclaimed,  ‘‘  Oh  heavens ! what  a wretch  then,  as 
if  suddenly  recollecting  his  situation,  looked  at  Adela,  appeared  con- 
fused, stammered  out  a few  inarticulate  words,  and  resumed  his 
letter ; when  he  finished,  he  seemed  to  put  it  into  his  pocket,  but  in 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


121 


reality  dropped  it  at  his  feet  for  the  basest  purpose ; he  ran  over  the 
remainder  of  the  letters,  and  rising,  entreated'  Adela  to  excuse  his 
leaving  her  so  abruptly,  to  answer  some  of  them.  Soon  after  his 
departure,  Adela  perceived  an  open  letter  laying  at  her  feet;  she 
immediately  took  it  up  with  an  intention  of  returning  to  the  house 
with  it,  when  the  sight  of  her  own  name  in  capital  letters,  and  the 
well  known  hand  of  Fitzalan,  struck  her  sight ; she  threw  the  letter 
on  the  table,  an  universal  tremor  seized  her,  she  would  have  given 
any  consideration  to  know  why  she  was  mentioned  in  a correspon- 
dence between  Belgrave  and  Fitzalan ; her  eye  involuntarily  glanced  at 
the  letter,  she  saw  some  words  in  it  which  excited  still  more  strongly 
her  curiosity,  it  could  no  longer  be  repressed ; she  snatched  it  up,  and 
read  as  follows : 


TO  COLONEL  BELGRAVE. 

“You  accuse  me  of  insensibility  to  what  you  call  the  matchless  charms  of  Adela,  an 
accusation  I acknowledge  I merit ; but  why?  because  I have  been  too  susceptible  to  those 
of  another,  which  in  the  fond  estimation  of  a lover  (at  least),  appear  infinitely  superior. 
The  general’s  offer  was,  certainly,  a most  generous  and  flattering  one,  and  has  gratified 
every  feeling  of  my  soul,  by  giving  me  an  opportunity  of  sacrificing  at  the  shrine  of  love, 
ambition  and  self-interest : my  disinterested  conduct  has  confirmed  me  in  the  affections 
of  my  dear  girl,  whose  vanity  I cannot  help  thinking  a little  elevated  by  the  triumph  I 
have  told  her  she  obtained  over  Adela ; but  this  is  excusable  indeed  when  we  consider  the 
object  I relinquished  for  her.  Would  to  heaven  the  general  was  propitious  to  your  wishes, 
it  would  yield  me  much  happiness  to  see  you,  my  first  and  best  friend,  in  possession  of  a 
treasure  you  have  long  sighed  for  ; I shall,  no  doubt,  receive  a long  lecture  from  you  for 
letting  the  affair  relative  to  Adela  be  known,  but  faith,  I could  not  resist  telling  my 
charmer;  heaven  grant  discretion  may  seal  her  lips;  if  not,  I suppose  I shall  be  sum- 
moned to  a formidable  combat  with  the  old  general.  Adieu!  and  believe  me,  dear  colo- 
nel, ever  yours, 

“OsoiR  Fitzalan.”’ 

“Wretch  !”  cried  the  agitated  Adela,  drojtping  the  letter,  (wliich  it 
is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  was  an  infamous  forgery),  in  an  agony 
of  grief  and  indignation,  “ is  this  the  base  return  we  meet  for  wish- 
ing to  raise  you  to  prosperity : oh ! cruel  Fitzalan,  is  it  Adela  who 
thought  you  so  amiable,  and  who  never  thoroughly  valued  wealth 
till  she  believed  it  had  given  her  the  power  of  conducting  you  to 
felicity,  whom  you  hold  up  as  an  object  of  ridicule,  for  unfeeling 
vanity  to  triumpli  over?”  Wounded  pride  and  tenderness  raised 
a whirl- of  contending  passions  in  her  breast,  she  sunk  upon  the 
]>onch,  her  head  rested  on  her  hand,  and  sighs  and  tears  burst  from 


122 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY. 


her:  she  now  resolved  to  inform  Fitzalan  she  knew  the  baseness  of 
his  condnet,  and  sting  his  heart  with  keen  reproaclies,  now  resolved 
to  pass  it  over  in  silent  contempt ; while  thus  fluctuating  the  colonel 
softly  advanced  and  stood  before  her ; in  the  tumult  of  her  mind  she 
had  quite  forgot  the  probability  of  his  returning,  and  involuntarily 
screamed  and  started  at  his  appearance ; by  her  confusion,  she 
doubted  not,  but  he  would  suspect  her  of  having  perused  the  fatal 
letter ; oppressed  by  the  idea,  her  head  sunl^  on  her  bosom,  and  her 
face  was'covered  with  blushes.  “ What  a careless  fellow  I am,”  said 
the  colonel,  taking  up  the  letter,  which  he  then  pretended  to  perceive ; 
he  glanced  at  Adela,  “curse it !”  continued  he,  “I  would  rather  have 
had  all  the  letters  read  than  this  one.”  lie  suspects  me,  thought 
Adela,  her  blushes  faded,  and  she  fell  back  on  her  seat,  unable  to 
support  the  oppressive  idea  of  having  acted  against  the  rules  of  pro- 
priety; Belgrave  flew  to  support  her.  “Loveliest  of  women,”  ho 
exclaimed,  with  all  the  softness  he  could  assume,  “ what  means  this 
agitation?”  “I  have  been  suddenly  affected,”  answered  Adela,  a 
little  recovering,  and  rising,  she  motioned  to  return  to  the  house. 
“ Thus,”  resumed  the  colonel,  “ you  always  fly  me ; but  go.  Miss 
Honeywood,  I have  no  right,  no  attraction,  indeed,  to  detain  you, 
yet,  be  assured,”  and  he  summoned  a tear  to  his  aid,  while  he 
pressed  her  hand  to  his  bosom,  “ a heart  more  truly  devoted  to  you 
than  mine,  you  can  never  meet : but  I see  the  subject  is  painful, 
and  again  I resume  the  rigid  silence  you  have  imposed  on  me : go 
then,  most  lovely,  and  beloved,  and  since  I dare  not  aspire  to  a 
higher,  allow  me,  at  least,  the  title  of  your  friend.”  “ Most  will- 
ingly,” said  Advda,  penetrated  by  his  gentleness ; she  was  noAV  tolera- 
bly recovered,  and  lie  prevailed  on  her  to  walk  instead  of  returning 
to  the  house : she  felt  soothed  by  his  attention,  his  insidious  tongue 
dropped  manna,  he  gradually  stole  her  thoughts  from  painful  recol- 
lections. 

The  implicit  respect  he  paid  her  well  flattered  her  wounded  pride^ 
and  her  gratitude  was  excited  by  knowing  he  resented  the  dis?’03pect- 
tui  mention  of  her  name  in  Fitzalan’s  letter;  in  short,  slie  felt  esteem 
and  respect  for  him,  contempt  and  resentment  for  Oscar.  The  colo- 
nel was  too  penetrating  not  to  discover  her  sentiments,  and  too  artful 
not  to  take  advantage  of  them;  had  Adela  indeed,  obeyed  the  real 
feelings  of  her  heart,  she  would  have  declared  against  marrying,  bul 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


123 


pride  urged  her  to  a step  which  would  prove  to  Fitzahm  his  conduct 
had  not  affected  her:  the  general  rejoiced  at  obtaining  her  cunsent, 
and  received  a promise  that  for  some  time  she  would  not  be  sepa- 
rated from  him.  Tlie  most  splendid  preparations  were  made  for  the 
nuptials;  but  though  Adela’s  resentment  remained  unabated,  she 
soon  began  to  wish  she  had  not  been  so  precipitate  in  obeying  it ; an 
involuntaiy  repugnance  rose  in  her  mind  against  the  connection  she 
was  about  forming,  and  honour  alone  kept  her  from  declining  it  for 
ever.  Her  beloved  friend,  Mrs.  Marlowe,  supported  her  throughout 
the  trying  occasion,  and  in  an  inauspicious  moment,  Adela  gave  her 
hand  to  the  perfidious  Belgrave. 

About  a fortnight  after  her  nuptials  she  heard  from  some  of  the 
officers  of  Oscar’s  illness.  She  blushed  at  his  name.  ‘‘Faith,”  cried 
one  of  them,  “ Mrs.  Marlowe  is  a charming  woman ; it  is  well  he  got 
into  such  snug  quarters : I really  believe  elsewhere  he  would  have 
given  up  the  ghost.”  “Poor  fellow,”  sighed  she  heavily,  yet  without 
being  sensible  of  it.  Belgrave  rose,  he  caught  her  eyes,  a dark  frown 
lowered  on  his  brow,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  pierce  into  the 
recesses  of  her  heart;  she  shuddered,  and  for  the  first  time  felt  the 
tyranny  she  had  imposed  upon  herself.  As  Mrs.  Marlowe  chose  to 
be  silent  on  the  subject,  she  resolved  not  to  mention  it  to  her,  but 
she  sent  every  day  to  invite  her  to  Woodlawn,  expecting  ly  this  to 
hear  something  of  Oscar,  but  she  Avas  disappointed.  At  the  end  of  a 
fortnight  Mrs.  Marlowe  made  her  appearance;  she  looked  pale  and 
thin.  Adela  gently  reproved  her  for  her  long  absence,  trusting  this 
would  oblige  her  to  allege  the  reason  of  it ; but  no  such  thing.  Mrs. 
Marlo'we  began  to  converse  on  indifferent  subjects:  Adela  suddenly 
grew  peevish,  and  sullenly  sat  at  lier  Avork. 

Jn  a feAV  days  after  Mrs.  Marlowe’s  visit,  AdcLM,,  one  evening  imme- 
diately after  dinner,  ordered  the  carriage  to  the  cottage.  By  tliis 
time  she  supposed  Oscar  had  left  it,  and  flattered  herself,  in  the 
course  of  conversation,  she  should  learn  Avhether  he  Avas  perfectly 
recovered  ere  he  departed.  Proposing  to  surprise  her  friend,  slie 
stole  by  a Avinding  path  to  the  cottage,  and  softly  opened  the  parlour 
door;  but  Avhat  Avere  her  feelings  AAdien.  she  perceiAmd  Oscar  sitting 
at  the  fire-side  Avith  Mrs.  MarloAve,  engaged  in  a deep  conversation ! 
She  stopped,  unable  to  advance.  Mrs.  Marlowe  embraced  and  led 
her  forward.  The  emotions  of  Oscar  Avere  not  inferior  to  Adela’s; 


124 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


he  attempted  to  arise,  t)iit  could  not.  A glance  from  tlje  expre^^Ive 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Marlowe,  which  seemed  to  conjure  him  not  to  yield  to  a 
weakness  which  would  betray  his  real  sentiments  to  Adela,  somew]),p  t 
reanimated  him ; he  rose,  and  tremblingly  approached  lier.  ‘‘Allow 
me,  madam,”  cried  he,  “to  ” — The  sentence  died  unfinished  on  his 
lips ; he  had  not  poTver  to  offer  congratulations  on  an  event  which 
had  probably  destroyed  the  happiness  of  Adela  as  well  as  his  own. 
“ Ohl  a truce  with  compliments,”  said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  forcing  herself 
to  assume  a cheerful  air;  “prithee,  good  folks,  let  us  be  seated,  and 
enjoy,  this  cold  evening,  the  comforts  of  a good  fire.”  She  forced 
the  trembling,  the  almost  fainting  Adela  to  take  some  wine,  and,  by 
degrees,  tlie  flutter  of  her  spirits  and  Oscar’s  abated ; but  the  sadness 
of  their  countenances,  the  anguish  of  their  souls  increased ; the  cold 
formality,  the  distant  reserve  they  both  assumed,  filled  each  with 
sorrow  and  regret ; so  pale,  so  emaciated,  so  wo-begone  did  Fitzalaii 
appear,  so  much  the  son  of  sorrow  and  despair,  that,  had  he  half- 
murdered  Adela,  she  could  not  at  that  moment  have  felt  for  him  any 
other  sentiments  than  those  of  pity  and  compassion.  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
in  a laughing  way,  told  her  of  the  trouble  she  liad  had  with  him, 
“for  which,  I assure  you,”  said  she,  “he  rewards  me  badly;  for  the 
moment  he  was  enlarged  from  the  nursery,  he  either  forgot  or 
neglected  all  the  rules  I had  laid  down  for  him. — Pray  do  join  your 
commands  to  mine,  and  charge  him  to  take  more  care  of  himself.” 
“ I w^ould  most  willingly,”  cried  Adela,  “if  I thought  they  would  influ- 
ence him  to  do  so.”  “Influence!”  repeated  Oscar,  emphatically, 
“oh  heavens !”  then  starting  up,  he  hurried  to  the  window,  as  if 
to  hide  and  to  indulge  his  melancholy.  The  scene  he  viewed  from 
it  w'as  dreary  and  desolate ; it  was  now  the  latter  end  of  autumn,  the 
evening  was  cold,  a savage  blast  howled  from  the  hills,  and  the  sky 
was  darkened  by  a coming  storm.  Mrs.  Marlowe  roused  him  from 
his  reverie.  “I  am  sure,”  said  she,  “the  prospect  you  view  from  the 
window  can  have  no  great  attractions  at  present.”  “ And  yet,”  cried 
he,  “there  is  something  sadly  xdeasing  in  it;  the  leafless  trees,  the 
fading  flowers  of  autumn,  excite  in  my  bosom  a kind  of  mournful 
sympathy;  they  are  emblems  to  me  of  him  whoso  tenderest  hopes 
have  been  disappointed,  but  unlike  him,  they,  after  a short  period, 
shall  again  flourish  with  primeval  beauty.” — “hTonsensc,”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  “your  illness  has  affected  your  spirits;  but  this  gloom 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


125 


will  vanish  long  before  my  orchard  reassumes  its  smiling  appearance, 
and  haply  attract  another  smart  red-coat  to  visit  an  old  woman 
“ Oh  ! with  what  an  enthusiasm  of  tenderness, cried  Oscar,  “ shall  I 
ever  remember  the  dear  though  dangerous  moment  I first  entered 
this  cottage!'^  “Now,  no  flattery,  Oscar,''  said  Mrs.  Marlowe;  “I 
know  your  fickle  sex  too  well  to  believe  I have  made  a deep  impres- 
sion ; why,  the  very  first  fine  old  woman  you  meet  at  your  ensuing 
quarters,  will,  I dare  say,  have  similar  praise  bestowed  on  her.  — - 
“ No,"  replied  he,  with  a languid  smile,  “ I can  assure  you  solemnly, 
the  impression  which  has  been  made  on  my  heart  will  never  be 
eftaced."  lie  stole  a look  at  Adela;  her  head  sunk  upon  her  bosom, 
and  her  heart  began  to  beat  violently.  Mrs.  Marlowe  wdshed  to 
change  the  subject  entirely;  she  felt  the  truest  compassion  for  the 
unhappy  young  couple,  and  had  fervently  desired  their  union;  but 
since  irrevocably  separated,  she  wished  to  check  aviv  intimation  of  a 
mutual  attachment,  which  could  now  answer  no  purpose  but  Unit  of 
increasing  their  misery.  She  rung  for  tea,  and  endeavoured  by  her 
conversation  to  enliven  the  tea-table.  The  eflort,  however,  was  not 
seconded.  ‘‘You  have  often,"  cried  she,  addressing  Adela,  as  they 
again  drew  their  chairs  round  the  fire,  “ desired  to  hear  the  exact 
particulars  of  my  life.  Unconquerable  feelings  of  regret  hitherto 
prevented  my  acquiescing  in  your  desire ; but,  as  nothing  better  now 
oflTers  for  passing  away  the  hours,  I will,  if  you  jflease,  I'elate  them. 
“You  will  oblige  me  by  so  doing,"  cried  Adela;  “ my  curiosity,  you 
know,  has  been  excited." 


CHAPTER  Xril. 

But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay; 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

Goldsmith. 

To  begin  tlien,  ivs  tlie3’  say  in  a novel,  without  further  preface,  I 
was  tlio  only  cliild  of  a country  curate,  in  the  southern  part  of 
England,  who,  like  his  wife,  was  of  a good  but  reduced  family, 


126 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Contented  dispositions,  and  an  agreeable  neighbourhood,  ready  on 
every  occasion  to  oblige  them,  rendered  them,  in  their  humble 
situation,  completely  happy.  I was  the  idol  of  both  their  hearts. 
Every  one  told  my  mother  I should  grow  up  a beauty,  and  she,  poor 
simple  woman,  believed  the  flattering  tale  ; naturally  ambitious,  and 
somewhat  romantic,  she  expected  nothing  less  than  my  attaining  by 
niy  charms  an  elevated  situation  ; to  fit  me  for  it,  therefore,  according 
to  her  idea,  she  gave  me  all  the  showy,  instead  of  solid,  advantages 
of  education  ; my  father  being  a meek,  or  rather  an  indolent  man, 
submitted  entirely  to  her  direction : thus,  without  knowing  the 
grammatical  part  of  my  own  language,  I was  taught  to  gabble  bad 
French  by  herself,  and  instead  of  mending  or  making  irw  clothes,  to 
flourish  upon  catgut  and  embroider  satin;  I was  taught  dancing  by 
a man  who  kept  a cheap  school  for  that  purpose  in  the  village; 
music  1 could  not  aspire  to,  my  mother’s  finances  being  insufficient  to 
purchase  an  instrument;  she  ^vas  therefore  obliged  to  content  herself 
with  my  knowing  the  vocal  part  of  that  delightful  science,  and 
instructed  me  in  singing  a few  old-fashioned  airs,  with  a thousand 
graces,  in  her  opinion  at  least. 

To  make  me  excel  by  my  dress,  as  well  as  my  accomplishments, 
all  the  misses  of  the  village,  the  remains  of  her  finery  were  cut  and 
altered  into  every  form  which  art  or  ingenuity  could  suggest ; and 
heaven  forgive  me,  but  my  chief  induceinent  in  going  to  meeting  on 
Sunday,  was  to  exhibit  my  flounced  silk  petticoat  and  paiiited 
chip  hat. 

When  I attained  my  sixteenth  year,  my  mother  thought  me  (and 
supposed  every  one  else  must  do  the  same),  the  most  perfect  creature 
in  the  world;  I was  lively  and  thoughtless,  vain  and  ambitious,  to 
an  extravagant  degree,  yet  truly  innocent  in  my  disposition,  and, 
often  forgetting  the  appearance  I had  been  taught  to  assume,  indulged 
the  natural  gaiety  of  my  heart,  in  a game  of  hide-and-go-seek, 
amongst  the  haycocks  in  a meadow  by  moon-light,  and  enjoyed 
perfect  felicity. 

Once  a week,  accompanied  by  my  mother,  I attended  the  dancing- 
master’s  sc:  ool,  to  practice  country  dances.  One  evening  we  had 
just  conclu.led  a set,  and  were  resting  ourselves,  when  an  elegant 
youth,  in  a fasliionable  riding-dress,  entered  the  room.  His  appear- 
ance r.t  once  excited  admiration  and  surj)riso:  never  sliall  1 forget 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


127 


the  pal  I'll  tilt!  on  of  iny  lieart  at  liis  approaoli : every  girl  experienced 
tlie  same,  ev^ery  cheek  was  flushed,  and  every  eye  sparkled  with  hope 
and  ex})ectation.  lie  walked  round  the  room  with  an  easy  and 
unembarraased  air,  as  if  to  take  a survey  of  the  company ; he  stopped 
by  a very  pretty  girl,  the  miller’s  daughter.  Good  heavens!  what 
were  my  agonies ; my  mother  too,  who  sat  beside  me,  turned  pale, 
and  would  actually,  I believe,  have  fainted,  had  he  taken  any  farther 
tiotice  of  her.  Fortunately  he  did  not,  but  advanced;  my  eyes 
caught  his ; he  again  paused,  looked  surprised  and  pleased,  and,  after 
a moment  passed  in  seeming  consideration,  bowled  with  the  utmost 
elegance,  and  requested  the  honour  of  my  hand  for  the  ensuing  dance. 
My  politeness  had  hitherto  been  only  in  theory;  I arose,  dropped 
him  a profound  courtesy,  assured  him  the  honour  would  be  all  on 
my  side,  and  I was  happy  to  grant  his  request.  He  smiled,  I thought 
a little  archly,  and  coughed  to  avoid  laughing.  I blushed,  and  felt 
embarrassed,  but  he  led  me  to  the  head  of  the  room  to  call  a dance, 
and  my  triumph  over  my  companions  so  exhilarated  my  spirits,  that 
I immediately  lost  all  confusion. 

I had  been  engaged  to  a young  farmer,  and  he  was  enraged,  not 
only  at  my  breaking  my  engagement  without  his  permission,  but  at 
the  superior  graces  of  my  partner,  who  threatened  to  be  a formidable 
rival  to  him.  “By  jingo;”  said  Clod,  coming  up  to  me  in  a surly 
manner,  “I  think.  Miss  Fanny,  you  have  not  used  me  genteelly;  I 
don’t  see  why  this  here  tine  spark  should  take  the  lead  of  us  all.” 
“Creature!”  cried  I,  with  an  ineffable  look  of  contempt  w^hich  he 
could  not  bear,  and  retired  grumbling.  My  partner  could  no  longer 
refrain  from  laughing  ; the  simplicity  of  my  manners,  notwith- 
standing the  airs  I endeavoured  to  assume,  highly  delighted  him. 
“^io  wonder,”  cried  he,  “the  poor  swain  should  be  mortified  at 
losing  the  hand  of  his  charming  Fanny.” 

The  dancing  over,  we  rejoined  my  mother,  who  was  on  thorns  to 
begin  a conversation  with  the  stranger,  that  she  might  let  him  know 
we  were  not  to  be  ranked  with  the  present  company.  “ I am  sure, 
sir,”  said  she,  “a  gentleman  of  your  elegant  appearance  must  feel 
rather  awkward  in  the  present  party ; it  is  so  witli  tis^  as  indeed  it 
must  bo  with  every  person  of  fashion ; but  in  an  obscure  little  village 
like  this,  we  must  not  be  too  nice  in  our  society,  except  like  a hermit, 
wo  could  do  without  any.”  Tlie  stranger  assented  to  wliatever  she 


128 


CniLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Baid,  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  sup  with  us:  my  mother  instantly 
Bent  an  intimation  of  her  will  to  my  father,  to  have,  not  the  fatted 
calf  indeed,  but  the  fatted  duck  prepared : and  he  and  the  maid  used 
such  expedition,  that  by  the  time  we  returned,  a neat,  comfortable 
supper  was  ready  to  lay  on  the  table.  Mr.  Marlowe,  the  stranger’s 
name,  as  he  informed  us,  was  all  animation  and  affability;  it  is 
unnecessary  to  say  that  my  mother,  father,  and  myself,  were  all  com- 
plaisance, delight,  and  attention.  On  departing,  he  asked,  and 
obtained  permission  of  course  to  renew  his  visit  next  day,  and  my 
mother  immediately  set  him  down  as  her  future  son-in-law. 

As  everything  is  speedily  communicated  in  such  a small  village  as 
we  resided  in,  we  learned,  on  the  preceding  evening  he  had  stopped 
at  the  inn,  and  hearing  music,  he  had  inquired  from  whence  it  pro- 
ceeded, and  had  gone  out  of  curiosity  to  the  dance ; we  also  learned 
that  his  attendants  reported  him  to  be  heir  to  a large  fortune.  This 
report,  vain  as  I was,  was  almost  enough  of  itself  to  engage  my 
heart.  Judge  then,  whether  it  was  not  an  easy  conquest  to  a person 
who,  besides  the  above  mentioned  attraction,  possessed  those  of  a 
graceful  figure  and  cultivated  mind.  He  visited  continually  at  our 
cottage,  and  I,  uncultivated  as  I was,  daily  strengthened  myself  in  his 
affection.  In  conversing  with  him  I forgot  the  precepts  of  vanity 
and  affectation,  and  obeyed  tlie  dictates  of  nature  and  sensibility. 
He  soon  declared  the  motives  of  his  visits  to  me.  “ To  have  imme- 
diately demanded  my  hand,”  he  said,  “ would  have  gratified  the  ten- 
derest  wisli  of  his  soul ; but,  in  his  present  situation,  that  was  impos- 
Bible : left  at  an  early  age,  destitute  and  distressed,  by  the  death  of 
his  parents,  an  old  whimsical  uncle,  married  to  a woman  equall}' 
capricious,  had  adopted  him  as  heir  to  their  large  possessions.  He 
found  it  difiicult,  he  said,  “to  submit  to  their  ill  humour,  and  w^l3 
confident,  if  he  took  any  step  against  their  inclinations,  he  should  for 
ever  forfeit  their  favour;  therefore,  if  my  parents  would  allow  a 
reciprocal  promise  to  pass  between  us,  binding  each  to  each,  the 
moment  he  became  master  of  expected  fortune,  or  obtained  an  inle- 
pendence,  he  would  make  me  a partaker  of  it.”  They  consented, 
and  he  enjoined  us  to  the  strictest  secrecy,  saying,  “ one  of  his  atten- 
dants wms  placed  about  him  as  a kind  of  spy:  he  had  hitlierto 
deceived  him  with  respect  to  us,  declaring  my  father  was  an  intimate 
friend,  and  that  his  uncle  knew  he  intended  visiting  him.”  liut  my 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


129 


unfortunate  vanity  betrayed  the  secret  it  was  sc  material  for  me  to 
keep  ; I burned  indeed  to  reveal  it ; one  morning  a young  girl,  Avhe 
had  been  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  mine  till  I kncAv  Marlowe, 
came  to  see  me:  “Why  Fanny,”  cried  slie,  “you  have  given  us  all  up 
for  Mr.  Marlowe ; take  care,  ray  dear,  he  makes  you  amends  for  the 
loss  of  all  your  friends,”  “ I shall  take  your  advice,”  said  I,  with  a 
smile  and  a conceited  toss  of  my  head.  “Faitli,  for  my  part,”  con- 
tinued she,  “I  think  you  were  very  foolish  not  to  secure  a good 
settlement  for  yourself  with  Clod.”  “With  Clod!”  repeated  I,  with 
the  utmost  haughtiness ; “ Lord,  child,  you  forget  who  I am !”  “ Who 

are  you!”  exclaimed  she,  provoked  at  my  insolence;  “oh  yes  ! to  be 
sure  I forget  that  you  are  the  daughter  of  a poor  country  curate, 
with  more  pridq  in  your  head  than  money  in  your  purse.”  “ Neither 
do  I forget,”  said  I,  “ that  your  ignorance  is  equal  to  your  imperti-, 
nence.  If  I am  the  daughter  of  a poor  country  curate,  I am  the 
affianced  wife  of  a rich  man,  and  as  much  elevated  by  expectation,  as 
spirit,  above  you.”  Our  conversation  Avas  repeated  throughout  the 
village,  and  reached  the  ears  of  Marlowe’s  attendant,  who  instantly 
developed  the  real  motive  which  detained  him  so  long  in  the  village; 
he  wrote  to  his  uncle  an  account  of  the  whole  affair.  The  conse- 
quence of  this  was  a letter  to  poor  Marlowe,  full  of  the  bitterest 
reproaches,  charging  him,  without  delay,  to  return  home.  This  was 
like  a thunderstroke  to  us  all,  but  there  was  no  alternative  betweei? 
obeying,  or  forfeiting  his  uncle’s  favour.  “ I fear,  my  dear  Fanny,” 
cried  he,  as  he  folded  me  to  his  bosom,  a little  before  his  departure, 
“ it  Avill  be  long  ere  wq  shall  meet  again  : nay,  I also  fear,  I shall  be 
obliged  to  promise  not  to  write;  if  both  these  fears  are  realized, 
impute  not  either  absence  or  silence  to  a want  of  the  teiiderest 
affection  for  you.”  lie  went,  and  with  him  all  my  hap})iness.  My 
mother,  shortly  after  his  departure,  w^as  attacked  by  a nervous  fever, 
which  terminated  her  days  ; my  father,  naturally  of  weak  spirits  and 
delicate  constitution,  was  so  shocked  by  the  sudden  death  of  his 
beloved  and  fidtliful  companion,  that  he  sunk  beneadli  his  grief  The 
h rrors  of  my  mind  I cannot  describe;  I seemed  to  stand  alone  in  the 
world,  without  one  friendly  hand  to  prevent  my  sinking  into  the 
grave,  which  contained  the  dearest  objects  of  my  love.  I did  not 
know  where  Marlowe  lived,  and,  even  if  I had,  durst  not  venture  an 
•ipplication,  which  might  be  the  means  of  ruining  him.  The  esteem  of 


130 


C H ILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY; 


my  neighbours  I had  forfeited  by  my  conceit ; they  paid  no  attention 
but  what  common  humanity  dictated,  merely  to  prevent  my  perish- 
ing ; and  tiiat  they  made  me  sensibly  feel.  In  this  distress  I received 
an  invitation  from  a schoohfellow  of  miine,  who  had  married  a rich 
farmer,  about  forty  miles  from  oui*  village,  to  take  lip  my  residence 
wdth  her,  till  I was  sufficiently  recovered  to  fix  on  some  plan  for 
future  subsistence.  I gladly  accepted  the  ofier,  and  after  paying  a 
farewell  visit  to  the  grave  of  my  regretted  parents,  I set  oflT,  in  the 
cheapest  conveyance  I could  find,  to  hei  habitation,  with  all  my 
wordly  treasure  packed  in  a portmanteau. 

With  my  friend  I trusted  I should  enjoy  a calm  and  happy  asylum, 
till  Marlow^e  was  able  to  fulfil  his  promise,  and  allow  me  to  reward 
her  kindness ; but  this  idea  she  soon  put  to  flight,  by  informing  me, 
as  my  health  returned,  I must  think  of  some  method  for  supporting 
myself.  I started,  as  at  the  utter  annihilation  of  all  my  hopes,  for 
vain  and  ignorant  of  the  world,  I imagined  Marlowe  would  never 
think  of  me,  if  once  disgraced  by  servitude.  I told  her  I understood 
but  little  of  anything,  except  fancy  work;  she, was  particularly  glad, 
she  said,  to  hear  I knew  that,  as  it  w^ould  in  all  probability,  gain 
me  admittance  to  the  service  of  a rich  old  lady  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, who  had  long  been  seeking  for  a person  who  could  read 
agreeably,  and  do  fancy  works,  wdth  which  she  delighted  to  ornament 
her  house  ; she  was  a little  whimsical,  to  be  sure,  she  added,  but 
well-timed  flattery  might  turn  those  whims  to  advantage,  and  if  I 
regarded  my  reputation,  I should  not  reject  so  respectable  a protec- 
tion. There  w^as  no  alternative;  I inquired  particularly  about  her; 
but  how  great  was  my  emotion  wdien  I heard  she  w^as  the  aunt  of 
Marlow’e ! my  heart  throbbed  with  exquisite  delight  at  the  idea  o^ 
being  in  the  same  house  wdth  him.  Besides,  the  service  of  his  aunt 
•would  n#d,,  I flattered  myself,  degrade  me  as  much  in  his  eyes  as  that 
of  another  person.  It  was  necessary,  ho-vvever,  my  name  should  be 
concealed,  and  1 requested  my  friend  to  comply  with  my  wish  in  that 
respect.  She  rallied  me  about  my  pride,  which  she  supposed  had 
suggested  the  request,  but  promised  to  comply  with  it.  She  had  no 
doubt  but  her  recommendation  would  be  sufficient  to  procure  me 
immediate  admittance,  and  accordingly,  taking  some  of  my  avo*’ 
■with  me,  I proceeded  to  the  habitation  of  Marlow^e.  It  wars  an  an 
tique  mansion,  surrounded  with  neat  cli])ped  hedges,  level  bwns,  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


131 


formal  plantations  ; two  statues,  cast  in  the  same  mould,  and  resem- 
bling nothing  either  in  heaven,  earth,  or  sea,  stood  grinning  horribly 
upon  the  pillars  of  a massy  gate,  as  if  to  guard  the  entrance  from 
impertinent  intrusion.  On  knocking,  an  old  porter  appeared.  I gave 
him  my  message,  but  he,  like  the  statues,  seemed  stationary,  and 
would  not,  I believe,  have  stirred  from  his  situation  to  deliver  an 
embassy  from  the  king ; he  called,  however,  to  a domestic,  who  hap- 
pening to  be  a little  deaf,  was  full  half  an  hour  before  he  heard  him. 
At  last  I was  ushered  up  stairs  into  an  apartment,  from  the  heat  of 
which  one  might  have  conjectured  it  was  under  the  torrid  zone; 
though  in  the  middle  of  July,  a heavy  hot  fire  burned  in  the  grate;  a 
thick  carpet,  representing  birds,  beasts,  and  dowsers,  -was  spread  on 
the  floor,  and  the  windows,  closely  screwed  down,  were  heavy  wflth 
wood-work,  and  darkened  with  dust ; the  master  and  mistress  of  the 
mansion,  like  Derby  and  Joan,  sat  in  arm  chairs  on  each  side  of  the 
fire ; three  dogs  and  as  many  cats  slumbered  at  their  feet ; he  was 
leaning  on  a spider  table,  pouring  over  a voluminous  book,  and  she 
was  stitching  a counterpane.  Sickness  and  ill-nature  were  visible  in 
each  countenance,  “ So !”  said  she,  raising  a huge  pair  of  spectacles  at 
my  entrance,  and  examining  me  from  head  to  foot,  ‘^you  are  come  from 
Mrs.  Wilson’s:  why,  bless  me,  child,  you  are  quite  too  young  for  any 
business — prsy  what  is  your  name,  and  where  did  you  come  from  ?” 
I was  prepared  for  tliese  questions,  and  told  her  the  truth,  only  con- 
cealing my  real  name,  and  the  place  of  my  nativity.  “Well,  let  me 
see  those  works  of  yours,”  cried  she.  I produced  them  and  the 
spectacles  were  again  drawn  down.  “ they  are  neat  enough,  to 
be  sure,”  said  she,  “ but  the  design  is  bad,  very  bad  indeed : there  is 
taste!  there  is  execution!”  directing  me  to  some  pictures  in  heavy 
gilt  frames,  hung  round  the  room.  I told  her,  -with  sincerity,  I liad 
never  seen  any  thing  like  them.  “ To  be  sure,  child,”  exclaimed  she; 
Xfleased  at  what  she  considered  admiration  in  me,  “’tis  running  a 
great  risk  to  take  you,  but  if  you  think  you  can  conform  to  the  regu- 
lations of  my  house,  I will  from  compassion,  and  as  you  are  recom- 
mended by  Mrs.  Wilson,  venture  to  engage  you;  but  remember,  I 
must  have  no  gad-about,  no  fly  flapper,  no  chatterer  in  my  family ; 
you  must  be  decent  in  your  dress  and  carriage,  discreet  in  your  Avords, 
industrious  at  your  work,  and  satisfied  with  the  indulgence  of  going 
to  church  on  Sunday.”  I saw  I was  about  entering  on  a painful  servi  - 
tude. but  the  idea  of  its  being  sweetened  by  tlie  sympathy  .of  Mar- 


132 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


lowe,  a little  reconciled  me  to  It.  On  promising  all  she  desired,  every- 
thing was  settled  for  my  admission  into  her  family,  and  she  took  care 
I should  perform  the  promises  I made  her.  I shall  not  recapitulate 
the  various  trials  I underwent  from  her  austerity  and  peevishness ; 
suffice  it  to  say,  my  patience,  as  well  as  taste,  underwent  a perfect 
martyrdom.  I was  continually  seated  at  a frame  working  pictures 
of  her  own  invention,  which  were  everything  that  was  hideous  in 
nature.  I was  never  allowed  to  go  out,  except  on  a Sunday  to  church, 
or  on  a chance  evening  when  it  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  colours. 

Marlowe  was  absent  on  my  entering  the  family,  nor  durst  I ask 
when  he  was  expected.  My  health  and  spirits  gradually  declined 
from  my  close  confinement ; when  allowed  as  I have  before  said  a 
chance  time  to  go  out,  instead  of  enjoying  the  fresh  air,  I sat  down 
to  weep  over  scenes  of  former  happiness.  I dined  constantly  ■with  the 
old  housekeeper.  She  informed  me,  one  day,  that  Mr.  Marlowe,  her 
master’s  young  heir  who  had  been  absent  some  time  on  a visit,  was 
expected  home  on  the  ensuing  day.  Fortunately  the  good  dame  ■was 
too  busily  employed  to  notice  my  agitation.  I retired  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible from  the  table,  in  a state  of  indescribable  pleasure.  Never 
sliall  I forget  my  emotions  when  I heard  the  trampling  of  his  horse’s 
feet,  and  saw  him  enter  the  liouse!  Vainly  I endeavoured  to  resume 
my  -work;  my  hands  trembled,  and  I sunk  back  on  my  chair,  to 
indulge  in  the  delightful  idea  of  an  interview  wfith  him,  which  I 
believed  to  be  inevitable.  My  severe  task -mistress  soon  awakened  mo 
from  my  delightful  dream.  She  came  to  tell  me,  “I  must  confine 
myself  to  my  own  and  the  house-keeper’s  room,  which  to  a virtuous, 
discreet  maiden,  such  as  I appeared  to  be,  she  supposed  would  be  no 
hardship,  while  her  nephew,  who  was  young,  perhaps  rather  a ■';\fild 
young  man,  remained  in  the  house:  when  he  again  left  it,  which 
would  soon  be  the  case,  I should  regain  my  liberty.”  My  heart  sunk 
within  me  at  her  words  ; but  when  the  first  shock  was  over,  I con- 
soled myself  by  tliinking  I should  be  able  to  elude  her  vigilance.  1 
was,  however,  mistaken:  she  and  the  house-keeper  were  perfect 
Arguses.  To  be  in  the  same  house  wfith  Marlowe,  yet  without  his 
knowing  it,  drove  me  almost  distracted. 

I at  Jast  thought  of  an  expedient,  which,  I hoped,  would  effect  the 
discovery  I wanted.  I had  just  finished  a piece  of  work,  which  ray 
mistress  was  delighted  with ; it  was  an  enormous  flower  basket, 
mounted  on  the  back  of  a cat,  which  held  beneath  its  paw  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


133 


h'embling  mouse.  The  raptures  the  old  lady  expressed  at  seeing  her 
own  design  so  ably  executed  encouraged  me  to  ask  permission  to 
embroider  a picture  of  m}^  own  designing,  for  which  I had  silks  lying 
by  me.  She  complied,  and  I satvabout  it  with  alacrity.  I copied  my 
face  and  figure  as  exactly  as  I could,  and  in  mourning  drapery  and 
a pensive  attitude,  placed  the  little  image  by  a rustic  grave  in  the 
clmrch  yard  of  my  native  village,,  at  tlie  head  of  which,  half  embow- 
ered in  trees,  appeared  the  lowly  cottage  of  miy  departed  parents ; 
these  well-known  objects,  I thought,  would  revive,  if  indeed  she  w^as 
absent  from  it,  the  idea  of  poor  Fanny  in  the  mind  of  Marlowe;  I 
presented  the  picture  to  my  mistress,  who  w^as  pleased  with  the  pres- 
ent, and  promised  to  have  it  framed.  The  next  day,  while  I sat  at 
dinner,  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Marlowe  entered  the  room.  I 
thought  I should  have  fainted ; my  companion  dropped  her  knife  and 
fork,  with  great  precipitation,  and  Marlo'we  told  her  he  was  very  ill, 
and  wanted  a cordial  from  her.  She  rose  wdth  a dissatisfied  air  to 
comply  with  his  request.  He,  taking  this  opportunity  of  approaching 
a little  nearer,  darted  a glance  of  pity  and  tenderness,  and  softly  wdiis- 
pered,  To-night,  at  eleven,  meet  me  in  the  front  parlour.”  You  may 
conceive  how  tardily  the  hours  passed  till  the  appointed  time  came, 
when  stealing  to  the  parlour,  1 found  Marlo'we  expecting  me;  ho 
folded  me  to  his  heart,  and  his  tears  mingled  with  mine,  as  I related 
my  melancholy  tale.  “ You  are  now,  my  Fanny,”  he  cried,  “ entirely, 
mine ! deprived  of  the  ju-otection  of  your  tender  parents,  I shall  endeav  • 
our  to  fulfil  the  sacred  trust  they  reposed  in  my  lionour,  by  securing 
mine  to  you,  as  far  as  lies  in  my  power.  I w^as  not  mistaken,”  contin- 
ued he,  “ in  the  idea  I had  formed  of  the  treatinent  I should  receive 
fi’om  my  flinty-hearted  relations  on  leaving  you.  Had  I not  promised 
to  drop  all  correspondence  with  you  I must  have  relinquished  all 
hopes  of  their  favour.  Bitter  indeed,”  cried  he,  while  a tear  started 
in  his  eye,  “ is  the  bread  of  dependence ; ill  could  my  soul  sub- 
mit to  the  indignities  I received ; but  I consoled  myself  througli- 
out  them,  by  the  idea  of  future  happiness  with  my  Fanny.  Had  1 
know^n  her  situation  (which  indeed  it  was  impossible  I slionld,  as  my 
uncle’s  spy  attended  me  wherever  I went,)  no  dictate  of  prudence 
would  have  prevented  my  flying  to  her  aid!”  “ Thank  heaven,  tlien, 
yAu  were  ignorant  of  it,”  said  I.  “My  aunt,”  lie  proceeded,  “showed 
ue  your  work,  lavishing  the  highest  encomiuins  on  it.  I glanced  my 


134 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

eye  iarelcss.y  upon  it,  but  in  a moment,  how  was  that  careless  eye 
attracted  by  the  well-known  objects  presented  to  it  I This,  I said  to 
my  heart,  can  only  be  Fanny’s  work.  I tried  to  discover  from  my 
aunt  whether  my  conjectures  were  wrong,  but  without  success. 
When  I retired  to  dress,  I asked  my  servant  if  there  had  been  any 
addition  to  the  family  during  my  absence.  He  said  a young  woman 
was  hired  to  do  fine  works,  but  she  never  appeared  among  the 
servants.” 

Marlowe  proceeded  to  say,  “he  could  not  bear  I sliould  longer 
continue  in  servitude,  and  that  without  delay  he  was  resolved  to 
unite  his  fate  to  mine.”  I opposed  this  resolution  a little,  but  soon, 
too  self-interested  I fear,  acquiesced  in  it.  It  was  agreed  I should 
inform  his  aunt  my  health  would  no  longer  permit  my  continuing  in 
her  family,  and  that  I should  retire  to  a village  six  miles  off,  where 
Marlowe  undertook  to  bring  a young  clergyman,  a particular  friend 
of  his,  to  perform  the  ceremony.  Our  j^lan,  as  settled,  was  carried 
into  execution,  and  I became  the  wife  of  Marlowe.  I was  now,  you 
Avill  suppose,  elevated  to  the  pinnacle  of  happiness.  I was  so,  indeed, 
Dut  my  own  folly  preoipitated  me  from  it.  The  secrecy  I was  coin- 
pelled  to  Observe  moriilied  me  exceedingly,  as  1 panted  to  emerge 
from  the  invidious  cloud  which  had  so  long  concealed  my  beauty  and 
accomplishments  from  a world,  that,  I was  confident,  if  seen,  would 
pay  them  the  homage  they  merited.  The  people  with  whom  I lodged 
had  been  obliged  by  Marlowe,  and  therefore,  from  interest  and  grati- 
tude, obeyed  the  ii\j unction  he  gave  them  of  keeping  my  residence  at 
their  house  a secret.  They  believed,  or  affected  to  believe,  I was  an 
orphan  committed  to  his  care,  whom  his  uncle  would  be  displeased  to 
know  he  had  taken  under  his  protection. — Three  or  four  times  a week 
I received  stolen  visits  from  Marlowe,  when  one  day,  (after  a month 
had  elapsed  in  this  manner)  standing  at  the  parlour  window,  I saw 
Mrs.  Wilson  walking  down  tlie  village.  I started  back,  but  too  late 
to  escape  her  observation.  She  immediately  bolted  into  the  room, 
with  all  tlie  eagerness  of  curiosity.  I bore  her  first  interrogatories 
tolerably  well,  but  when  she  upbraided  me  for  leaving  tlie  excellent 
services  she  had  procured  for  me,  for  duplicity  in  saying  I was  going 
to  anotlier,  and  for  my  Indiscretion  in  respect  to  Marlowe,  I lost  all 
command  of  my  tenqier,  and  remembering  the  inhumanity  with 
which  she  had  forced  me  into  servitude,  I resolved  to  mortify  hei 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


135 


completely,  by  assuming  all  the  airs  I had  heretofore  so  ridiculously 
aspired  to;  lolling  in  my  chair,  with  an  air  of  the  most  careless  indif- 
ference, I bid  her  no  longer  petrify  me  with  her  discourse.  This 
raised  all  the  violence  of  rage,  and  she  plainly  told  me,  “from  my 
conduct  with  Marlowe,  I was  unworthy  her  notice.^^  “ Therefore,'' 
cried  I,  forgetting  every  dictate  of  prudence,  “his  wife  will  neither 
desire  nor  receive  it  in  future."  “His  wife!"  she  repeated,  with 
a look  of  scorn  and  incredulity.  I produced  the  certificate  of  my 
marriage : thus,  from  an  impulse  of  vanity  and  resentment,  putting 
myself  in  the  power  of  a woman,  a stranger  to  every  liberal  feeling, 
and  whose  mind  was  inflam*ed  with  envy  towards  me.  The  hint  1 
forced  myself  at  parting  to  give  her,  to  keep  the  affair  a secret,  only 
determined  her  more  strongly  to  reveal  it.  The  day  after  her  visit 
Marlowe  entered  my  appartment.  Pale,  agitated,  and  breathless,  he 
sunk  into  a chair ; a pang  like  conscious  guilt  smote  my  heart, 
and  I trembled  as  I approached  him.  He  repulsed  me  when  I 
attempted  to  touch-  his  hand ; “ Cruel,  inconsiderate  woman,”  he 
said,  “to  what  dreadful  lengths  has  your  vanity  hurried  you,  it  has 
drawn  destruction  upon  your  head  as  well  as  mine.”  Shame  and 
remorse  tied  my  tongue;  had  I spoken,  indeed,  I could  not  have  vin- 
dicated myself,  and  I turned  aside  and  wept.  Marlowe,  mild,  tender, 
and  adoring,  could  not  longer  retain  resentment : he  started  from  his 
chair,  and  clasped  me  to  his  bosom.  “Oh  Fanny!”  he  cried, 
“ tliough  you  have  ruined  me,  you  are  still  dear  as  ever  to  me.” — 
This  tenderness  affected  me  even  more  than  reproaches,  and  tears  and 
sighs  declared  my  penitence.  His  expectations  i^elative  to  liis  uncle 
were  finally  destroyed  on  being  informed  of  our  marriage,  which  Mrs. 
Millson  lost  no  time  in  telling  him.  He  burned  his  'will,  and  immedi- 
ately made  another  in  favour  of  a distant  relation.  On  hearing  this 
intelligence,  I was  almost  distracted ; I flung  myself  at  my  husband’s 
feet,  imploring  his  .pardon,  yet  declaring  I could  never  forgive 
myself.  He  grew  more  composed  upon  the  increase  of  my  agitation, 
as  if  purposely  to  soothe  my  spirits,  assuring  me  that,  though  his 
uncle’s  favor  was  lost,  he  had  other  friends  on  whom  he  greatly 
depended.  "We  set  off  for  London,  and  found  his  dependence  was  not 
ill  placed:  for  soon  after  our  arrival,  he  obtained  a place  of  considera- 
ble emolument  in  one  of  tlie  public  offices.  My  husband  delighted  in 
gratifying  me,  though  I was  often  both  extravagant  and  whimsical,  and 


13(5 


CniLDUEH  AF  THE  ABBEY. 


almost  ever  on  the  wing  for  admiration  and  amusement.  1 v/as  reck- 
oned a pretty  Avoman,  and  received  witli  rapture  the  nonsense  and 
adulation  addressed  to  me.  I became  acquainted  with  a young  Avidow 
Avlio  concealed  a depraved  heart  under  a specious  appearance  of  inno- 
cence and  virtue,  and,  by  aiding  the  vices  of  others  procured  the 
means  of  gratifying  her  own : yet  so  secret  wei’e  all  her  transactions, 
that  calumny  had  not  yet  attacked  her,  and  her  house  was  the 
rendezvous  of  the  most  fashionable  people.  My  husband,  who  did 
not  dislike  her  manner,  encouraged*  our  intimacy,  and  at  her  parties  I 
was  noticed  by  a young  nobleman  then  at  the  head  of  the  ton ; he 
declared  I was  one  of  the  most  charming  objects  he  had  ever  beheld, 
and,  for  such  a declaration,  I thought  him  the  most  polite  I had  ever 

knoAvn : as  Lord  T condescended  to  wear  my  chains,  I must 

certainly,  I thought,  become  quite  the  rage.  My  transports,  hoAvever, 
v/ere  a little  checked  by  the  grave  remonstrances  of  my  husband,  who 

assured  me  Lord  T was  a famous,  or  rather  an  infamous,  libertine, 

and  that,  if  I did  not  avoid  his  lordship’s  particular  attentions,  he 
must  insist  on  my  relinquishing  the  AvidoAv’s  society.  This  I thought 
cruel,  but  I saAV  liiih  resolute  and  promised  to  act  as  he  desired ; 
a promise  I never  adhered  to,  except  when  he  was  present.  I was 
now  in  a situation  to  promise  an  increase  of  family,  and  MarloAve 
wished  me  to  nurse  the  child.  The  tenderness  of  my  heart  seconding 
this  Avish,  I resolved  on  obeying  it:  but  Avhen  the  widoAv  heard  my 
intention  she  laughed  at  it,  and  said  it  Avas  absolutely  ridiculous,  for 
the  sake  of  a squalling  brat,  to  give  up  all  the  pleasures  of  life; 
besides,  it  would  be  much  better  taken  care  of  in  some  of  the  village? 
about  London.  I denied  this : still,  hoAveA^er,  she  dAvelt  on  the  sacri- 
fices I must  make,  the  amusements  I must  give  iip,  and  at  last  com- 
Xdetely  conquered  my  resolution.  I pretended  to  MarloAve  my  liealth 
Avas  too  delicate  to  alloAv  me  to  bear  ruch  fatigue,  and  he  immediately 
sacrificed  his  own  inclination  to  mine.  I have  often  w'ondered  at  the 
kind  of  infatuation  Avith  Avhicli  lie  complied  with  all  my  desires, 
^[y  little  girl,  almost  as  soon  as  born,  Avas  sent  from  me ; but,  on  being 
able  to  go  out  again,  I received  a considerable  shock  from  hearing 
my  noble  admirer  v/as  gone  to  the  continent  OAving  to  a trifling 
derangement  in  his  affairs.  Tlie  A'aiii  pursuits  of  pleasure  and  dissi- 
pation Avere  still  continued ; three  years  passed  in  this  manner,  during 
which  I had  a son,  and  my  little  girl  was  brought  home.  I have 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


U7 


since  often  felt  astonished  at  the  cold  indifference  Yrith  which  1 
regarded  Marlowe  and  our  lovely  babe,  on  whom  he  doated  with  ail 
the  enthasiasm  of  tenderness : alas ! vanity  had  then  absorbed  my 
heart,  and  deadened  every  feeling  of  nature  and  sensibility ; it  is 
the  parent  of  self-love  and  apathy,  and  degrades  those  who  harbour 
it  below  humanity. 

Lord  T — now  returned  from  the  continent.  He  swore  my  idea 
had  never  been  absent  from  his  mind,  and  that  I was  more  charming 
than  ever ; while  I thought  him,  if  possible,  more  polite  and  engag- 
ing. Again  my  husband  remonst rated ; sometimes  I seemed  to 
regard  these  remonstrances,  sometimes  protested  that  I would  not 
submit  to  such  unnecessary  control ; I knew,  indeed,  that  mj  inten- 
tions were  innocent,  and  I believed  I might  safely  indulge  my  vanity, 
without  endangering  either  my  reputation  or  peace.  About  this 
time  Marlowe  received  a summons  to  attend  a dying  friend  some 
miles  from  London ; our  little  girl  was  tlien  in  a sliglit  fever,  wliicli 
had  alarmed  her  father,  and  confined  me,  most  unwillingly,  I must 
confess,  to  the  house.  Marlowe,  on  the  point  of  parting,  pressed  me 
to  his  breast.  “My  heart,  my  beloved  Fanny,”  said  he,  “ feels  unu- 
sually heavy ; I trust  the  feeling  is  no  presentiment  of  approaching 
ill.  Oh ! my  Fanny,  on  you  and  my  babe  I rest  for  happiness  ; take 
care  of  our  little  cherub,  and  above  all  (his  meek  eye  encountering 
mine)  of  yourself,  that,  ivith  accustomed  rapture,  I may,  on  my 
return,  receive  you  to  my  arms.”  There  was  something  so  solemn, 
and  so  tender  in  this  address,  that  my  heart  melted,  and  my  tears 
mingled  with  those  which  trickled  down  his  pale  cheeks.  For 
tv70  days  I attended  ray  child  assiduously,  when  the  widov/  made 
her  appearance.  She  assured  me,  I should  injure  myself  by  such 
close  confinement,  and  that  my  cheeks  were  already  faded  by  it ; slie 
mentioned  a delightful  masquerade  which  was  to  be  given  that  night, 
and  for  which  Lord  T — had  presented  her  with  tickets  for  me  and 
herself ; but  she  declared,  except  I would  accompany  her,  she  would 
not  go.  I had  often  -wished  to  go  to  a masquerade ; I now,  however, 
declined  this  opportunity  of  gratifying  my  inclination,  but  so  faintly 
as  to  prompt  a renewal  of  her  solicitations,  to  which  I at  last  yielded, 
and  committing  my  babe  to  the  care  of  a servant,  set  ott  witJi  tlic 
widow  to  a wareliouse  to  choose  dresses.  Lord  T — dined  with  us, 
and  we  were  all  in  the  highest  spirits  iimiginablo.  About  twelve  wo 


138 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


\fent  ill  his  chariot  to  the  Ilajmarkot,  and  I was  absolutely  intoxi- 
cated with  his  flattery,  and  the  dazzling  objects  around  me.  At  five 
we  quitted  the  scene  of  gaiety;  the  widow  took  a chair;  I would 
have  followed  her  example,  but  my  lord  absolutely  lifted  me  into  his 
chariot,  and  there  began  talking  in  a strain  which  provoked  my  con- 
tempt, and  excited  my  apprehensions.  I expressed  my  displeasure 
in  terms  which  checked  his  boldness,  and  convinced  him  he  had  some 
difficulties  yet  to  overcome,  ere  he  completed  his  designs : he  made 
his  apologies  with  so  much  humility,  that  I was  soon  appeased  and 
prevailed  on  to  accept  them.  We  arrived  at  tlie  widow’s  house  in 
as  much  harmony  as  we  left  it ; the  flags  were  wet,  and  Lord  T — 
insisted  on  carrying  me  into  the  house.  At  the  door  I observed  a 
man  muffled  up,  but  as  no  one  noticed  him,  I thought  no  more  about 
it.  We  sat  down  to  supper  in  high  spirits,  and  chatted  for  a con- 
siderable time  about  our  past  amusements.  Ilis  lordship  said,  “ after 
a little  sleep,  we  should  recruit  ourselves  by  a pleasant  jaunt  to  Kich- 
mond,  where  he  had  a charming  villa.”  We  agreed  to  his  proposal, 
and  retired  to  rest ; about  noon  we  arose,  and  wfflile  I was  dressing 
myself  for  the  projected  excursion,  a letter  w^as  brought  in  to  me. — 
‘‘  Good  Lord ! Halcot,”  exclaimed  I,  turning  to  the  widow,  If  Mar- 
lo^ve  is  returned  what  will  become  of  me  ?”  Oh  ! read,  my  dear 
creature,”  cried  she,  “ and  then  we  can  think  of  excuses.”  I have 
the  letter  liere,  continued  Mrs.  Marlowe,  laying  her  hand  to  her 
breast,  and  drawn  ng  it  forth,  after  a short  pause,  I laid  it  to  my  heart 
to  guard  against  future  folly. 


THE  LETTER. 

“ The  presages  of  my  heart  were  but  too  true — we  parted  never  to  meet  again.  0 ! 
Fanny,  beloved  of  my  soul,  how  are  you  lost  to  yourself  and  Marlowe ! The  indepen- 
dence, splendour,  riches,  which  I gave  up  for  your  sake,  were  mean  sacrifices,  in  my  esti- 
mation, to  the  felicity  I fondly  expected  to  have  .enjoyed  with  you  tlirough  life : your 
beauty  charmed  my  mind,  but  it  was  your  simplicity  captivated  my  heart.  I took,  a-s  I 
thought,  the  per/ect  child  of  innocence  and  sincerity  to  my  bosom : resolved,  from  duty, 
as  well  as  from  inclination,  to  shelter  you  io  that  bosom,  to  the  utmost  of  my  power, 
from  every  adverse  storm.  \Viieiiever  you  wore  indisposed,  what  agonies  did  I endure  ! 
yet  what  I then  dreaded,  could  I have  possibly  foreseen,  would  have  been  comparative 
happiness  to  my  present  misery ; for,  oh  ! my  Fanny,  far  preferable  would  it  have  been 
tc  beheld  you  in  the  arms  of  death  tiian  infamy. 

“ I returned  immediately  after  witnessing  the  last  pangs  of  ray  friend — oppressed  with 
the  awful  scene  of  death,  yet  cheering  my  spirits  bj  an  anticipation  of  the  consolation  1 
should  receive  froa\  my  Fanny’s  sympathy, — Good  God  ! what  was  my  horror,  when  ? 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


139 


found  my  little  balDe,  instead  of  being  restored  to  health  by  a mother’s  care,  neaily  expir- 
ing through  her  neglect!  the  angel  lay  gasping  on  her  bed,  deserted  by  the  mercenary 
wretch  to  whose  care  she  was  consigned.  I inquired,  and  the  fatal  truth  rushed  upon  my 
soul,  yet  v/hen  the  first  tumult  of  passion  had  subsided,  I felt  that,  v/ithout  yet  stronger 
proofs,  I could  not  abandon  you.  Alas!  too  soon  did  I receive  those  proofs!  I traced 
you,  Fanny,  through  your  giddy  round  till  I saw  you  borne  in  the  arms  of  the  vile  Lord 
T — into  the  house  of  his  vile  paramour.  You  will  wonder,  perhaps,  I did  not  tear  you 
from  his  grasp.  Could  such  a procedure  have  restored  you  to  me  with  all  your  unsullied 
innocence,  I should  not  have  hesitated,  but  that  was  impossible;  and  mine  eyes  then 
gazed  upon  Fanny  for  the  last  time.  I returned  to  my  motherless  babe,  and  am  not 
ashamed  to  say,  I wept  over  it  with  all  the  agonies  of  a fond  and  betrayed  heart. 

“Ere  I bid  an  irrevocable  adieu,  I would,  if  possible,  endeavour  to  convince  you  that 
conscienae  cannot  always  be  stifled,  that  illicit  love  is  constantly  attended  by  remorse 
and  disappointment;  for,  when  familiarity  or  disease  have  diminished  the  charms  which 
excited  it,  the  frail  fetters  of  admiration  are  broken  by  him  who  looks  only  to  an  exteriof 
for  delight;  if  indeed  your  conscience  should  not  be  awakened  till  this  hour  of  desertion 
comes,  when  it  does  arrive,  you  may  perhaps  think  of  Marlowe.  Yes,  Fanny,  when  your 
cheeks  are  faded  by  care,  when  your  wit  is  enfeebled  by  despondency,  you  may  think  of 
him  whose  tenderness  would  have  outlived  both  time  and  change,  and  supported  you, 
without  abatement,  through  every  stage  of  life. 

“To  stop  short  in  the  career  of  vice,  is,  they  say,  the  noblest  effort  of  virtue;  may  such 
an  effort  be  yours,  and  may  you  yet  give  joy  to  the  angels  of  heaven,  who,  we  are  taught 
to  believe,  rqjoice  over  them  that  are  truly  repentant  1 That  want  should  strew  no  thorns 
in  the  path  of  penitence,  all  that  I could  take  from  my  babe  I haA'^e  assigned  to  you.  Oh  I 
my  dear  culprit,  remember  the  precepts  of  your  early  youth,  of  those  who,  sleeping  in  the 
dust,  are  spared  the  bitter  tear  of  anguish  such  as  I now  shed,  and,  ere  too  late,  expiate 
your  errors.  In  the  solitude  to  which  I am  hastening,  I shall  continually  pray  for  you, 
and  when  my  child  raises  its  spotless  hands  to  heaven,  it  shall  implore  its  mercy  for  erring 
mortals;  yet  think  not  it  shall  ever  hear  your  story;  oh!  never  shall  the  blusli  of  shame 
for  the  frailties  of  one  so  near,  tinge  its  ingenuous  countenance.  May  the  sincerity  of 
your  repentance  restore  that  peace  and  brightness  to  your  life,  which,  at  present,  I think 
you  must  have  forfeited,  and  support  you  with  fortitude  through  its  closing  period  ! As  a 
friend,  once  dear,  you  will  ever  exist  in  the  memory  of 

Marlowe.” 

As  I concluded  the  letter,  my  spirits,  'which  had  been  gradually 
receding,  entirely  forsook  me,  and  I fell  senseless  on  the  door.  Mrs. 

ITalcot  and  Lord  T took  this  opportunity  of  gratifying  their 

curiosity  by  perusing  the  letter,  and,  'when  I recovered,  I found 
myself  supported  between  them.  “You  see,  my  dear  angel,”  cried 

Lord  T , “ your  cruel  husband  has  abandoned  you : but  grieve 

not,  for  in  my  arms  you  shall  find  a kinder  asylum  than  he  ever 
afforded  you.”  “ True,”  said  Mrs.  Halcot,  “ for  my  part  I think  sIjo 
has  reason  to  rejoice  at  his  desertion.” 

I shall  not  attempt  to  repeat  all  I said  to  them,  in  the  height  of  my 
distraction  * suflice  it  to  say.  I reproached  them  both  as  the  autliors 


340 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ot  my  shame  and  misery,  and  while  I spurned  Lord  T indignantly 

from  my  feet,  accused  Mrs.  Halcot  of  possessing  neither  delicacy  nor 
feeling.  Alas!  accusation  or  reproach  could  not  lighten  the  weight 
on  my  heart.  I felt  a dreadful  consciousness  of  having  occasioned  my 
own  misery  ; I seemed  as  if  awakening  from  a disordered  dream, 
which  had  confused  my  senses : and  the  more  clearly  my  perception 
of  what  was  right  returned,  the  more  bitterly  I lamented  my  devia- 
tion from  it:  to  be  reinstated  in  ll:e  esteem  and  affection  of  my 
husband  was  all  the  felicity  I cfrfdd  dcrire  to  j)ossess.  Full  of  the 
idea  of  being  able  to  effect  a rcc  iiclliation,  I started  up,  but  ere  I 
reached  the  door  sunk  into  an  agony  of  tears,  I'ecollecting  that  ere  this 
he  was  probably  far  distant  from  me.  My  base  companions  tried  to 
assuage  my  grief,  and  make  me  in  reality  the  wretch  poor  Marlowe 
supposed  me  to  be.  I heard  them  in  silent  contempt,  unable  to  move, 
till  a servant  informed  me  a gentleman  below  stairs  desired  to  see  me. 
The  idea  of  a relenting  husband  instantly  occurred,  and  I flew  down ; 
but  how  great  was  my  disappointment  only  to  see  a particular  friend 
of  his  ! our  meeting  was  painful  in  the  extreme.  I asked  him  if  he 
knew  any  thing  of  Marlowe,  and  he  solemnly  assured  me  he  did  not. 
When  my  confusion  and  distress  had  a little  subsided,  he  informed 
me  that  in  the  morning  he  had  received  a letter  from  him,  wuth  an 
account  of  our  separation,  and  the  fatal  cause  of  it.  The  letter 
contained  a deed  of  settlement  on  me  of  a small  paternal  estate,  and  a 
bill  of  fifty  pounds,  which  Marlowe  requested  his  friend  to  present 
himself  to  me ; he  also  added,  my  clothes  v/ere  sent  to  liis  house,  aar 
our  lodgings  had  been  discharged.  I did  not  find  it  difficult  tc 
convince  this  gentleman  of  my  innocence,  and,  putting  myself  under 
his  protection,  was  immediately  conveyed  to  lodgings  in  a retired 
part  of  the  town.  Here  he  consoled  me  with  assurance  of  using  every 
effort  to  discover  the  residence  of  my  husband.  All,  alas  I proved 
unsuccessful,  and  my  health  gradually  declined ! as  time  wmre  away, 
iny  hope  yet  left  still  undiminished  my  desire  of  seeing  him  ; change 
of  air  was  at  last  deemed  requisite  to  preserve  my  existence,  and  I 
went  to  Bristol.  I had  the  good  fortune  to  lodge  in  the  house  with 
an  elderly  Irish  lady,  whose  sweet  and  benevolent  manners  soon 
gained  my  warmest  esteem,  and  tempted  me  to  divulge  my  melan- 
clioly  tale,  where  so  certain  of  obtaining  ]>ity.  She  had  also  suffered 
severely  from  the  pressure  of  sorrow ; but  hers,  as  it  proceeded  not 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


141 


from  imprudence,  but  the  common  vicissitudes  of  life,  was  borne 
without  that  degree  of  anguish  mine  occasioned.  As  the  period 
approached  for  her  return  to  her  native  country,  I felt  the  deepest 
regret  at  the  prospect  of  our  separation,  which  she,  however,  removed, 
by  asking  me  to  reside  entirely  with  her.  Eight  years  had  elapsed 
since  tht<  Joss  of  my  hu.band,  and  no  latent  hope  of  his  return 
romair.ed  in  my  heart  sufficiently  strong  to  tempt  me  to  forego  the 
advantages  of  such  society.  Ert?  I departed,  however,  I v/rote  to 
several  of  his  friends,  informing  them  of  the  step  I intended  taking^ 
and,  if  any  tidings  of  Marlowe  occurred,  wliere  I was  to  be  found. 
Five  years  I passed  with  my  valuable  friend  in  retirement,  and  had 
the  pleasure  of  tliinking  I had  contributed  to  the  ease  of  her  last 
moments.  This  cottage,  wdth  a few  acres  adjoining  it,  and  four 
hundred  pounds,  was  all  her  wealth,  and  to  me  she  bequeathed  it, 
having  no  relations  wliose  wants  gave  them  any  claim  upon  her. 

The  events  I have  just  related  will,  I hope,  strengthen  the  moral 
^o  many  wish  to  impress  upon  the  minds  of  youth,  naraeljq  that 
without  a strict  adherence  to  propriety,  there  can  be  no  permanent 
pleasure ; and  that  it  is  the  actions  of  early  life  must  give  to  old  age 
either  happiness  and  comfort,  or  sorrow  and  remorse.  Had  I 
attended  to  the  admonitions  of  wisdom  and  experience,  I should  have 
checked  my  wanderings  from  prudence,  and  preserved  my  happiness 
from  being  sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of  vanity ; then,  instead  of  being 
a solitary  being  in  the  world,  I might  have  had  my  little  fireside 
enlivened  by  the  partner  of  my  heart,  and,  perhaps  my  children’s 
children  sporting  around ; but  suffering  is  the  proper  tax  we  pay  for 
folly.  The  frailty  of  human  nature,  the  x>i’evalence  of  example,  the 
allurements  of  the  world,  are  mentioned  by  many  as  extenuations  for 
misconduct.  Though  virtue,  say  they,  is  willing,  she  is  often  too 
weak,  to  resist  the  wishes  they  excite.  Mistaken  idea;  and  blessed 
is  that  virtue  which,  by  opposing,  ends  them!  With  every  temptU' 
tion  we  have  the  means  of  escape  ; woe  be  to  us  if  we  neglect  those 
means,  or  hesitate  to  disentangle  ourselves  from  the  snares  which 
vice  or  folly  may  have  spread  around  us.  Sorrow  and  disappointment 
are  incident  to  mortality,  and,  when  not  occasioned  by  any  conscious 
nuprudence,  should  be  considered  as  temporary  trials  from  heaven  to 
improve  and  correct  us,  and  therefore  cheerfully  to  be  borne.”  A 
sigh  stole  from  Osc.ar  as  sb9  tpoke,  and  a tear  trickled  down  the  soft 


112 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


cheek  of  Adela.  I have/^  continued  Mrs.  Marlowe,  given  you, 
like  an  old  woman,  a tedious  tale ; hut  that  tediousness,  with  every 
other  imperfection  I have  acknowledged  and  may  betray,  I rest  upoa 
your  friendship  and  candour  to  escuse.^^ 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Denied  her  sight,  he  often  crept 
Beneath  the  liavrlhorn  sliade  ; 

To  mark  the  spot  in  -vvliicii  she  wept — 

In  which  she  wept  and  pray’d. 

The  night  was  waning  fast,  and  Adela  rose  to  de[>art  as  her  frii^nd 
concluded  her  story : yet  it  required  an  effort  of  resolution  to  retire. 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  however,  was  too  w’-ell  convinced  of  tlie  expediency 
and  propriety  of  this  to  press  her  longer  stay,  though  the  eyes  of 
Oscar,  suddenly  turned  to  her,  seemed  to  entreat  she  w'ould  do  so. 
The  night  was  dark  and  wet,  which  prevented  Mrs.  Marlowe  from 
accompanying  Adela  to  the  carriage.  Hot  so  Oscar;  he  took  tJie 
umbrella  from  the  servant  wlio  held  it  for  his  mistress,  and  bade  him 
baste  on  to  have  the  carriage  door  opened.  “Oscar,'’  cried  Iffrs. 
Marlowe,  extremely  unwilling  to  allow  even  tins  short  tete-a-tete, 
“ Mrs.  Belgrave  will  dispense  wuth  your  gallantry,  for  you  are  really 
too  great  an  invalid  to  venture  out  on  such  a night  as  this.”  Adela 
attempted  to  dissuade  him  from  it,  but  her  voice  w^as  so  low  and 
faltering  as  scarcely  to  be  articulate ; Oscar  gently  seized  her  hand, 
and  pulled  it  under  his  arm ; he  felt  it  tremble  as  lie  did  so ; the 
touch  became  contagions  : a universal  tremor  affected  bis  frame,  and 
never,  perhaps,  bad  be  and  Adela  experienced  a moment  of  greater 
imliappiness.  Adela  at  last  found  herself  obliged  to  speak,  conscious 
that  her  silence  must  appear  particular,  and  said,  she  feared  lie  would 
be  injured  by  bis  attentions  to  lier.  More  fatally  injured  than  be 
already  w^as,  he  might  have  replied,  he  could  not  he ; hut  lie  checked 
the  words  ready  to  burst  from  bis  lips,  and  only  answered,  that  bo 
would  be  unfit  for  a soldier  if  lie  could  not  endure  the  inclemency  of 
the  wintry  blast.  The  light  from  the  globes  of  tlie  carriage  gave  hiiu 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


143 


a view  of  her  pale  lovely  cheeks,  and  he  saw  she  was  weeping. 
Confused  at  the  idea  of  betraying  her  distress,  she  averted  her  head 
and  hastily  ascended  the  steps ; yet,  for  a moment,  her  trembling 
hand  rested  upon  Oscar^s,  as  if,  in  this  manner,  she  would  have  given 
the  adieu  she  had  not  the  power  of  pronouncing.  Lost  in  agony,  he 
remained  like  a statue  on  the  spot  where  she  had  left  him,  till  roused 
by  the  friendly  voice  of  Mrs.  Marlowe,  who,  alarmed  by  Lis  long 
absence,  came  to  seek  liim.  Soothed  by  her  kind  solicitude,  lie 
directly  returned  wdth  her  to  the  house,  wdiere  his  indignation  against 
the  perfidious  Belgrave  again  broke  forth.  He  execrated  him,  not 
only  as  the  destroyer  of  his  peace,  but  a peace  infinitely  more 
precious  than  his  own,  that  of  the  charming  Adela. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  essayed  every  art  of  consolation,  and,  by  sympathy 
and  mildness,  at  last  subdued  the  violence  of  his  feelings ; she 
acknowledged  the  loss  he  sustained  in  being  deprived  of  Adela,  bi 
since  irrevocable,  both  virtue  and  reason'  required  him  to  struggle 
against  his  grief,  and  conceal  it ; by  tlieir  sacred  dictates  slie  entreated 
him  to  avoid  seeing  Adela.  He  felt  she  was  right  in  the  entreaty, 
and  solemnly  promised  to  comply  with  it her  friendship  was  balm 
to  his  wounded  heart,  and  her  society  the  only  pleasure  he  ^vas  capa- 
ble of  enjoying ; whenever  he  could  absent  himself  from  quarters, 
he  retired  to  her,  and  frequently  spent  three  or  four  days  at  a time 
in  her  cottage.  By  discontinuing  his  visits  in  the  gay  neighbour- 
hood of  Woodlawn,  he  avoided  all  opportunities  of  seeing  Adela, 
yet  often  on  a clear,  frosty  night  has  he  stole  from  the  fireside  of 
Mrs.  Marlowe,  to  the  beloved  and  beautiful  haunts  about  the  lake, 
w^here  he  and  Adela  past  so  many  happy  hours  together ; here  he 
indulged  in  all  the  luxury  of  woe,  and  such  are  the  pleasures  of 
virtuous  melancholy,  that  Oscar  would  not  have  resigned  them  for 
any  of  the  common-place  enjoyments  of  life. 

Often  did  he  wander  to  the  grove,  from  wdience  he  had  a view  of 
Adela’s  chamber,  and  if  a lucky  chance  gave  him  a glimpse  of  her, 
as  she  passed  through  it,  a sudden  ecstasy  would  pervade  his  bosom ; 
lio  would  pray  for  her  felicity,  and  return  to  Mrs.  Marlowe  as  if  his 
heart  was  lightened  of  an  opj)res3ive  weight.  That  tender  friend 
flattered  herself,  from  youth,  and  the  natural  gaiety  of  his  disposition, 
his  attacliment,  no  longer  fed  by  liope,  would  gradually  decline ; but 
she  was  mistaken  : the  bloom  of  his  youth  wiis  faded,  and  his  gaiety 


144 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


converted  into  deep  despondency : had  he  never  been  undeceived 
■with  regard  to  the  general  and  Adela,  pride,  no  doubt,  would  quickly 
have  lessened  the  poignancy  of  his  feelings ; but  when  he  reflected 
on  the  generous  intentions  of  the  one,  and  the  sincere  affection  of  the 
other,  and  the  supreme  happiness  he  might  have  enjoyed,  he  lost  all 
fortitude : thus  by  perpetually  brooding  over  the  blessings  once 
within  his  reach  losing  all  relish  for  those  which  were  yet  attainable, 
his  sorrow,  instead  of  being  meliorated,  was  increased  by  time ; the 
horror  and  indignation  v itli  which  he  beheld  Belgrave,  after  the  first 
knowledge  of  his  baseness,  could  scarcely  be  restrained;  thougli 
painful,  he  was  pleased  the  eftbrt  had  proved  a successful  one,  as, 
exclusive  of  his  sacred  promise  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  delicacy  on  Adela’s 
account  induced  him  to  bear  his  wrongs  in  silence;  he  could  not 
however,  be  so  great  a hypocrite  as  to  profess  any  longer  esteem  or 
respect  for  the  colonel,  and  when  they  met,  it  was  with  cold  polite 
ness  on  both  sides. 

The  unfortunate  Adela  pined  in  secret;  her  interview  with  Oscar 
had  destroyed  the  small  remainder  of  her  peace;  his  pale  and 
emaciated  figure  haunted  her  imagination ; in  vain,  by  dwelling  on 
his  unkind  letter,  did  she  endeavour  to  lessen  her  tenderness;  she 
felt  the  emotion  of  pity  stronger  than  that  of  resentment,  and  that 
the  friendship  of  Oscar  would  have  been  sweeter  to  her  soul,  than  the 
love  or  attention  of  any  other  object;  by  obeying  the  impulse  of  pas- 
sion, she  feared  she  had  doomed  herself  to  wretchedness.  Belgrave 
was  a man,  whom,  upon  mature  deliberation,  she  could  never  have 
chosen ; the  softness  of  his  manners  gradually  vanished,  when  the  pur- 
pose for  which  they  had  been  assumed  was  completed ; unfeeling  and 
depraved,  the  virtues  of  Adela  could  excite  no  -esteem  in  his  bosom, 
and  the  love  (if  it  can  merit  that  appellation)  which  he  felt  for  her 
quickly  subsided  after  their  marriage ; but  as  the  general  retained  the 
greatest  part  of  his  fortune  in  his  own  power,  he  continued  tolerably 
guarded  in  his  conduct — a slave,  however,  to  the  most  violent  pas- 
sions, he  was  often  unalle  to  control  tliem,  and  forgetful  of  all  pru- 
dential motives,  delighted  at  those  times  in  mortifying  Adela,  by  sly 
sarcasms  on  her  attachment  for  Oscar ; though  deeply  wounded,  sho 
never  complained ; she  liad  partly  forged  her  chains,  and  resolved  Uj 
bear  them  without  repining;  tranquil  to  appearance,  the  poor 
general,  who  was  not  penetrating,  thought  his  child  perfc^jtly  happy; 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


145 


Biich,  however,  was  not  the  opinion  of  those  who  visited  at  Wood- 
Lawn  ; the  rose  of  health  no  longer  spread  its  beautiful  tints  on  the 
cheek  of  Adela,  nor  were  her  eyes  irradiated  by  vivacity. 

The  colonei  never  went  to  Enniskellen  except  about  military  busi- 
ness, but  he  niade  frequent  excursions  to  the  metropolis,  and  other 
parts  of  the  kingdom  in  pursuit  of  pleasure.  Adela  felt  relieved  by 
his  absence,  and  the  general,  satisfied  at  his  not  attempting  cO  take 
her  along  wfith  him,  never  murmured  at  it.  The  period  now  arrived 
for  the  departure  of  the  regiment ; Adela  had  not  seen  Oscar  since 
the  interview  at  Mrs.  Marlowe’s;  she  declined  going  to  the  reviews 
which  preceded  the  change  of  garrison,  and  sincerely  hoped  no 
chance  would  again  throw  him  in  her  way.  Oscar*  sickened  at  the 
idea  of  quitting  the  country  without  seeing  her ; he  knew  she  was 
not  to  accompany  the  colonel;  the  officers  were  going  to  pay  a fare- 
well visit  to  Woodlawn,  and  he  cou'd  not  resist  being  one  of  the 
party ; they  were  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  where  Adela  and 
the  general  sat:  she  was  startled  at  the  appearance  of  Oscar,  but 
though  a blush  tinged  her  pale  face,  she  soon  recovered  her  com- 
posure, and  entered  into  conversation ; the  general  pressed  them  to 
stay  to  dinner,  but  they  had  many  visits  to  pay,  and  begged  to  be 
excused.  “My  dear  Fitzalan,”  said  the  general,  who  had  long 
dropped  his  displeasure,  “I  wish  you  happiness  and  success,  and 
hope  I shall  soon  hear  of  your  being  at  the  head  of  the  company ; 
remember  I say  soon,  for  I am  an  old  veteran,  and  should  be  sorry  to 
drop  into  the  trench  till  I had  heard  of  the  good  fortune  of  my 
friends ; your  father  was  a brave  fellow,  and,  in  the  speedy  advance- 
ment of  his  son,  should  receive  a reward  for  his  past  services.” 
Oscar  pressed  the  general’s  hand  to  his  breast,  he  cast  his  tearful  eyes 
on  Adela : she  sighed  and  bent  hers  to  the  ground. — “ Be  assured, 
eir,”  he  cried,  “ no  gratitude  can  be  more  fervent  than  that  your 
goodiiess  has  inspired  me  with,  no  wishes  can  be  more  sincere  than 
mine  for  the  happiness  of  the  inhabitants  of  Woodlawn.”  “ Ineffec- 
tual wishes,”  softly  exclaimed  Adela:  “happiness  from  one  of  its 
inhabitants,  at  least,  has,  I fear,  fled  for  ever.” 

The  general’s  wishes  for  the  p^mcess  of  Oscar  may  be  considered  as 
mere  words  of  course,  since  not  enforced  by  more  substantial  proofs 
of  regard ; but,  in  reality,  aoon  after  his  daughter’s  marriage,  in  his 
usual  blunt  manner,  he  bad  mentioned  to  the  colonel  his  giving  a 


146 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  A R B E Y . 


thousand  or  two  to  help  the  promotion  of  Oscar.  Belgrave,  who 
could  not  bear  that  the  man  whom  he  had  injured  should  have  a 
chance  of  obtaining  equal  rank  with  himself,  opposed  this  truly 
generous  design,  by  saying,  Oscar  was  taken  under  the  patronage  of 
Lord  Cherbury,  and  that  the  general’s  bounty  might  therefore,  at 
some  future  period,  be  better  applied  in  serving  a person  without  his 
interest.  To  this  the  general  assented,  declaring,  “ that  he  never  yet 
met  with  a brave  soldier,  or  his  offspring,  in  distress,  without  feeling 
and  answering  the  claim  they  had  upon  his  heart.” 

Oscar  obtained  a ready  pi:omise  from  Mrs.  Marlowe  of  correBpond* 
ing  with  him ; he  blushed  and  faltered,  as  he  besought  her  some- 
times to  acquaint  him  with  the  health  of  their  friends  at  Woodlawn. 

Change  of  scene  produced  no  alteration  in  him ; still  pining  with 
regret,  and  languid  from  ill  health,  his  father  and  sister  found  him. 
The  comforts  of  sympathy  could  not  be  his,  as  the  anguish  which 
preyed  upon  his  neart  he  consaderftd  of  t6o  sacred  a nature  to  divulge, 
he  hoarded  up  his  grief  like  a miser  hoarding  up  his  treasure,  fearful 
that  the  eye  of  suspicion  should  glance  at  it ; as  he  pressed  his  lovely 
sister  to  his  heart,  had  he  imagined  she  was  the  object  of  Colonel 
Belgrave’s  licentious  passion,  the  bo'mds  he  had  hitherto  prescribed 
to  his  resentment  would  in  a moment  have  been  overturned,  and  he 
would,  had  it  been  necessary,  have  pursued  the  monster  round  the 
world,  to  avenge  the  injury  he  had  meditated,  as  well  as  the  one  he 
had  committed. 

We  shall  now  bid  adieu  to  Oscar  for  the  present,  and  drawing  on 
our  boots  of  seven  leagues,  step  after  Fitzalan  and  Amanda. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

Confess’d  from  yonder  slow  extinguish’d  clouda 
All  ether  softening,  sober  Eyening  takes 
Her  wonted  station  in  the  middle  air ; 

A tnousaa ' bhadows  at  her  back. 

Thomson. 

Castle  Caebeeey,  to  which  our  travellers  were  going,  was  a large 
Gothic  pile,  erected  in  the  rude  and  distant  period  when  strengtii, 
more  than  elegance,  was  deemed  necessary  in  a I>uildiDg ; the  deprc- 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


147 


dations  of  war,  as  well  as  time,  were  discernible  on  its  exterior ; some 
of  its  lofty  battlements  v/ere  broken,  and  others  mouldering  to  decay, 
while  about  its  ancient  towers. 

The  rank  grass  waved  its  head, 

“ And  the  moss  whistled  to  the  wind  I’* 

It  stood  upon  a rocky  eminence  overhanging  the  sea,  and  com- 
manding a delightful  prospect  of  the  opposite  coast  of  Scotland; 
about  it  were  yet  to  be  traced  irregular  fortifications,  a moat,  and  the 
remains  of  a draw-bridge,  with  a well,  long  since  dry,  which  had 
been  dug  in  the  rock,  to  supply  the  inhabitants,  in  times  of  siege, 
with  water;  on  one  side  rose  a stupendous  hill,  covered  to  the  very 
Bummit  with  trees,  and  scattered  over  with  relics  of  druidical  anti* 
quity;  before  it  stretched  an  extensive  and  gently  swelling  lawn, 
sheltered  on  each  side  with  groves  of  intermingled  shade,  and 
refreshed  by  a clear  and  meandering  rivulet,  that  took  its  rise  from 
the  adjoining  hills,  and  murmured  over  a bed  of  pebbles. 

After  a pleasant  journey,  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  our 
travellers  arrived  at  their  destined  habitation.  An  old  man  and 
woman  who  had  the  care  of  it  were  apprised  of  their  coming,  and  on 
the  first  approach  of  the  carriage  opened  the  massy  door,  and  waited 
to  receive  them ; they  reached  it  when  the  sober  grey  of  twilight  had 
clad  every  object.  Amanda  viewed  the  dark  and  stupendous  edifice, 
whose  gloom  was  now  heightened  by  the  shadows  of  evening,  with 
venerable  awe ; the  solitude,  the  silence  which  reigned  around,  the 
melancholy  murmur  of  the  waves,  as  they  dashed  against  the  feet  of 
the  rocks,  all  heightened  the  sadness  of  her  mind;  yet  it  was  not 
quite  an  unpleasing  sadness,  for  with  it  was  now  mingled  a degree  of 
that  enthusiasm  which  plaintive  and  romantic  spirits  are  so  pecu- 
liarly subject  to  feel  in  viewing  the  venerable  grandeur  of  an  ancient 
fabric  renowned  in  history.  As  she  entered  a spacious  hall,  curiously 
wainscotted  with  oak,  ornamented  with  coats  of  arms,  spears,  lances, 
and  old  armour,  she  could  not  avoid  casting  a retrospective  eye  to 
former  times,  when,  perhaps  in  this  very  hall,  bards  sung  the  exploits 
of  those  heroes,  whose  useless  arms  now  hung  upon  the  walls ; she 
wished,  in  the  romance  of  the  moment,  some  grey  bard  near  her,  to 
tell  the  deeds  of  other  times,  of  kings  renowned  in  our  land,  of  chiefs 
we  behold  no  more.  In  the  niches  in  the  hall  were  figures  of  chief 


14a 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


tains,  large  as  life,  and  rudely  carved  in  oak ; their  frowning  coun- 
tenances struck  a sudden  panic  upon  the  heart  of  Ellen. — “ Cot  pless 
their  souls,”  she  said,  ‘‘  what  the  tefil  did  they  do  there,  except  to 
frighten  the  people  from  going  into  tne  house  ?” 

They  were  shown  into  a large  parlour,  furnished  in  an  old-fashioned 
manner,  and  found  a comfortable  supper  prepared  for  them ; oppressed 
with  fatigue,  soon  after  they  had  partaken  of  it,  they  retired  to  rest. 
The  next  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast,  Amanda,  attended  by 
the  old  woman  and  Ellen,  ranged  over  the  castle.  Its  interior  was 
quite  as  Gothic  as  its  exterior ; the  stairs  were  winding,  the  galleries 
intricate,  the  apartments  numerous,  and  mostly  hung  with  old 
tapestry,  representing  Irish  battles,  in  which  the  chiefs  of  Castle 
Carberry  were  particularly  distinguished.  Their  portraits  with  those 
of  their  ladies,  occupied  a long  gallery,  whose  arched  windows  cast 
a dim,  religious  light  upon  them;  this  was  terminated  by  a smaE 
apartment  in  the  centre  of  one  of  the  towers  that  flanked  the 
building ; the  room  was  an  octagon,  and  thus  commanding  a sea  and 
land  prospect,  uniting  at  once  the  sublime  and  beautiful  in  it.  The 
furniture  was  not  only  modern,  but  elegant,  and  excited  the  particu- 
lar attention  and  inquiries  of  Amanda.  The  old  woman  informed 
her  this  had  been  the  dressing  room  of  the  late  countess  of  Cher- 
bury,  both  before  and  after  her  marriage ; “ one  of  the  sweetest, 
kindest  ladies,”  continued  she,  ‘^I  ever  knew:  the  castle  has  been 
quite  deserted  since  she  died.  Alack  a day!  I thought  my  poor 
heart  would  have  broke  when  I heard  of  her  death.  Ah ! I remem- 
ber the  night  I heard  the  banshee  crying  so  pitifully.”  “ And  pray 
what  is  that?”  interrupted  Amanda.  ‘‘Why,  a little  woman,  no 
higher  than  a yard,  who  wears  a blue  petticoat,  a red  cloak,  and  a 
handkerchief  round  her  head;  and  when  the  head  of  any  family, 
especially  a great  family,  is  to  die,  she  is  always  heard  by  some 
of  the  old  followers,  bemoaning  herself.”  “Lort  save  us!”  cried 
Ellen,  “I  hope  his  lortship  the  earl,  won’t  take  it  into  his  head 
to  die  while  we  are  here,  for  I’d  as  lief  see  one  of  the  fairies  of 
Penmaenmowr,  as  such  a little  old  witch.”  “Well,  proceed,”  said 
Amanda.  “So,  as  I was  saying,  I heard  her  crying  dismally  one 
right  in  a corner  of  the  house.  So,  says  I to  my  husband,  Johnaten, 
flays  I,  I am  sure  we  shall  hear  something  about  my  good  lord  or 
lady,  and  sure  enough  we  did  the  next  day,  and  ever  6in''.e  we  Lave 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET* 


149 


seen  none  of  the  family.”  “Did  you  ever  see  the  young  lord?” 
asked  Amanda,  with  involuntary  precipitation.  “See  him!  ay  that 
I did,  when  he  was  about  eight  years  old.  There  is  his  picture 
(pointing  to  one  which  hung  over  the  chimney) ; my  lady  had  it  done 
by  a fine  English  painter,  and  brought  it  over  with  her ; it  is  the 
moral  of  what  he  then  was.”  The  eager  eyes  of  Amanda  were 
instantly  turned  to  it,  and  she  traced  or  imagined  she  did  so,  a 
resemblance  still  between  it  and  him ; the  painter  seemed  as  if  he 
had  the  description  of  Pity  in  his  mind,  when  he  drew  the  picture, 
for  Lord  Mortimer  w^as  pourtrayed  as  she  is  represented  in  the  beau- 
tiful allegory,  sheltering  a trembling  dove  in  his  bosom  from  a fero- 
cious hawk.  Oh ! Mortimer,  thought  Amanda,  thy  feeling  nature  is 
here  ably  delineated ; the  distressed,  or  tlie  helpless,  to  the  utmost  of 
your  power,  you  would  save  from  the  gripe  of  cruelty  and  oppression. 
Her  father  had  desired  her  to  choose  pleasant  apartments  for  her  own 
immediate  use,  and  she  accordingly  fixed  on  this  and  the  room 
adjoining  it,  which  had  been  Lady  Cherbury’s  chamber ; her  things 
were  brought  hither,  and  her  books,  works,  and  implements  for 
drawing  deposited  in  rich  inlaid  cabinets.  Pleased  with  the  arrange- 
ment she  had  made,  she  brought  her  father  as  soon  as  he  was  at 
leisure  to  view  them;  he  was  happy  to  find  her  spirits  somewhat 
cheerful  and  composed,  and  declared  that  in  future  he  would  call  this 
Amanda’s  Tower.  Accompanied  by  him  she  ascended  to  the  battle 
ments  of  the  castle,  and  was  delighted  with  the  extensive  and  varie- 
gated prospect  she  beheld  from  them:  a spacious  edifice  at  some 
distance,  embowered  in  a grove  of  venerable  oaks,  attracted  her 
admiration;  her  father  told  her  that  was  Ulster  Lodge,  a seat 
belonging  to  the  marquis  of  Eosline,  who  was  an  Iris^>  as  well  as  a 
Scots  peer,  and  had  very  extensive  possessions  in  Ireland ; Fitzalan 
added,  he  had  been  inquiring  of  the  old  man  ahout  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  learned  from  him  tljat  at  the  expiration  of  every  three  or 
four  years,  the  marquis  usually  came  over  to  Ulster  Lodge,  but  had 
never  been  accompanied  by  the  ma/chioness,  or  Lady  Euphrasia 
Sutherland,  who  was  Ids  only  child. 

The  domestic  economy  of  Castle  Carberry  was  soon  settled:  a 
young  man  and  woman  wmre  hired,  as  Johnaten  and  his  wife  Kate 
were  considered  little  more  than  supernumeraries ; Ellen  was 
appointed  to  attend  Amanda,  and  do  whatever  plain  work  waai 


160 


CHILDIIEN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


required.  Fitzalan  felt  a pleasing  serenity  diffused  over  Lis  mind 
from  the  idea  of  being  in  some  degree  independent,  and  in  the  way 
of  making  some  provision  for  Lis  children. — The  first  shock  of  a 
separation  from  Lord  Mortimer  being  over,  the  cheerfulness  of 
Amanda  gradually  returned,  the  visions  of  hope  again  revived  in  her 
mind,  and  she  indulged  a secret  pleasure  at  living  in  the  house  he 
had  once  occupied;  she  considered  her  father  as  particularly  con- 
nected with  his  family,  and  doubted  not,  from  this  circumstance,  she 
should  sometimes  hear  of  him;  she  judged  of  his  constancy  by  her 
OAvn,  and  believed  he  would  not  readily  forget  her;  she  acknow- 
ledged her  father’s  motives  for  separating  them  were  equally  just  and 
delicate,  but  firmly  believed  if  Lord  Mortimer  (as  she  flattered  lier- 
self  he  would)  confessed  a partiality  in  her  favour  to  his  father,  that 
inT^ienced  by  tenderness  for  his  son,  friendship  for  her  father,  and 
the  Knowledge  of  her  descent,  he  would  immediately  give  up  every 
idea  of  another  connexion,  and  sanction  theirs  with  his  approbation ; 
no  obstacle  appeared  to  such  an  union  but  want  of  fortune,  and  that 
want  she  could  never  suppose  would  be  considered  as  one,  by  the 
liberal-minded  Lord  Cherbury,  who  had  himself  an  income  sufficient 
to  gratify  even  luxurious  wishes.  Iler  time  was  agreeably  diversified 
by  the  sources  of  amusement  she  drew  from  herself;  her  father, 
whose  supreme  felicity  consisted  in  contributing  to  her  pleasure, 
purchased  a delightful  harp  for  her  in  Dublin,  wiiich  arrived  a few 
days  after  them  at  Castle  Carberry,  and  with  its  dulcet  lays  she  often 
charmed  not  only  his  spirit  but  her  own,  from  every  mortal  care ; 
she  loved  to  rise  early  and  catch  the  first  beams  of  the  sun,  as  she 
w^andered  over  tlie  dewy  lawn,  where  the  lowing  cattle  cropped  the 
fiovvery  herbage,  and  the  milk-maid  sung  her  plaintive  ditty. 

With  ])er  father  she  took  long  walks  about  the  adjacent  country: 
he  had  visited  every  scene  before  and  now  pointed  out  whatever  was 
worthy  iier  attention:  the  spots  wliere  the  heroes  of  former  ages  had 
fallen,  where  the  miglity  stones  of  their  fame  were  raised,  that  the 
children  of  tlie  north  might  hereafter  know  the  places  where  their 
fathers  fought : that  the  hunter,  as  he  leaned  upon  a mossy  tomb,- 
niight  say,  here  fought  the  heroes  of  other  years,  and  their  fame  shall 
last  forever. 

Amanda,  too,  often  rambled  by  herself,  particularly  among  tht» 
rocksj  where  were  several  natural  .grottos,  strewed  with  shells  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


151 


sea  weeds ; liere,  on  a mild  day,  she  loved  to  read  and  listen  to  the 
low  murmurs  of  the  tide;  the  opposite  Scottish  hills  among  which 
her  mother  first  drew  breath,  often  attracted  and  fixed  her  attention, 
frequently  drawing  tears  from  her  eyes,  by  awakening  in  her  mind 
the  recollections  of  that  mother’s  sufferings, 

On  a morning,  when  she  sat  at  work  in  her  apartment,  Ellen,  who 
was  considered  more  as  a friend  than  a servant,  sometimes  sat  with 
her ; the  conversation  not  unfrequently  turned  on  nurse  Edwin’s  cot- 
tage, from  which  Ellen,  with  an  arch  simplicity,  would  advert  to 
Tudor  Hall,  thence  naturally  to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  conclude  with 
poor  Chip,  exclaiming  what  a pity  true  love  should  ever  be  crossed. 


CHAPTER  Xyi. 

Some  took  him  for  a tool, 

That  knaves  do  work  with,  call’d  a fool, 

Fools  are  known  by  looking  wise. 

As  men  find  woodcocks  by  their  eyes.  Hud. 

The  solitude  of  Castle  Carberry  was  interrupted,  in  less  than  a 
fortnight,  by  visits  and  invitations  from  the  neighbouring  families. 
The  first  they  accepted  was  to  dine  at  Mr.  Kilcorban’s ; he  was  a man 
of  large  fortune,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  compensated  for  the 
want  of  polished  manners  and  a cultivated  mind ; but,  to  others  of  a 
more  liberal  way  of  thinking,  could  not  possibly  excuse  those  defi- 
ciencies, which  were  more  apparent  from  his  pretending  to  every 
excellence,  and  more  intolerable  from  his  deeming  himself  authorized 
by  his  wealth  and  consequence,  to  say  and  do  almost  whatever  ho 
pleased.  His  lady  was  like  himself,  a compound  of  ignorance,  pride, 
and  vanity ; their  offspring  was  numerous,  and  the  three  wlio  were 
sufficiently  old  to  make  their  appearance,  were  considered  by  their 
parents  and  themselves  as  the  very  models  of  elegance  and  perfection. 
The  young  heir  had  been  sent  to  the  university,  but,  being  permitted 
to  be  his  own  master,  he  had  profited  little  by  his  residence  there ; 
enough,  however,  perhaps  he  thought  for  a man  of  fortune,  who 
wanted  not  professional  knowledge ; his  face  was  coarse,  his  person 
inelegant,  and  his  taste  in  adorning  himself  preposterously  ridiculous, 


162 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


fashion,  Hoyle,  and  the  looking-glass  were  his  chief  studies,  and  by 
his  family  and  self,  he  was  considered  quite  the  thing. 

The  young  ladies*  were  supposed  to  be  very  accomplished,  hect  asa 
they  had  instructors  in  almost  every  branch  of  education;  but,  in 
reality,  they  understood  little  more  than  the  names  of  what  they 
were  attempted  to  be  tau^t : nature  had  not  been  lavish  of  her  gifts ; 
of  this,  however,  they  were  conscious,  and  patched,  powdered,  and 
painted  in  the  very  extremity  of  the  mode.  Their  mornings  were 
generally  spent  in  rolling  about  in  a coach  and  six,  with  their 
mamma,  collecting  news  and  paying  visits ; their  evenings  were  con- 
stantly devoted  to  company,  without  which  they  declared  they  could 
not  exist ; they  sometimes  affected  languor  and  sentiment,  talked  of 
friendship,  and  professed  for  numbers,  the  most  sincere*;  yet,  to  the 
very  girls  they  pretended  to  regard,  delighted  in  exhibiting  their 
finery,  if  certain  they  could  not  purchase  the  same,  and  would  feel 
mortified  by  seeing  it. 

Mr.  Kilcorban  had  indulged  his  family  in  a trip  to  Bath  one 
autumn,  and  in  so  doing,  had  afforded  a never-failing  subject  for 
conversation:  upon  every  occasion  this  delightful  excursion  was 
mentioned — the  novelties  they  saw,  the  admiration  they  excited,  tlie 
elegant 'intimacies  they  formed,  the  amazing  sums  they  expended, 
were  all  described  and  exaggerated. 

Lady  Greystock,  an  ancient  widow,  was  at  present  on  a visit  to 
them.  She  had  known  Bitzalan  in  his  youth,  and  now,  with  plea- 
sure, renewed  her  intimacy  with  him,  and  the  account  she  gave  of 
his  family  and  connexions  prepossessed  the  neighbourhood  in  his 
favour.  She  was  a shrewd,  sensible  woman;  the  dignity  of  her 
person  conamanded  respect,  but  the  sarcastic  expression  of  her  coun- 
tenance prevented  her  conciliating  esteem. 

An  old  chariot  belonging  to  the  Earl  of  Oherbury,  which  had  been 
for  years  unemployed  in  the  coach-house,  was  brought  forth  for  the 
purpose  of  conveying  Fitzalan  and  his  daughter  on  their  visits. 
After  a good  deal  of  rubbing  and  washing,  it  was  found  tolerably 
decent,  and  they  proceeded  in  it  to  Mr.  Kilcorban’s,  which  was 
about  two  miles  from  Castle  Oarberry.  A numerous  party  was 
already  assembled.  Whilst  Amanda  was  paying  her  compliments  to 
Mrs.  Kilcorban  and  Lady  Greystock,  a general  wliisper  relative  to 
her  took  place  among  the  younger  part  of  the  company,  who  bad 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


153 


formed  themselves  into  a group  quite  distant  from  the  rest.  One 
gentleman  swore  “she  was  a devilish  fine  girl!”  he  was  seconded  ii? 
the  remark  by  another,  who  extolled  her  complexion.  “ You  are  a 
simpleton,”  cried  a young  lady,  who  was  reckoned  a great  wit ; “ Td 
engage,  for  half  a crown,  to  get  as  fine  a colour  in  Dublin.”  Her 
companions  laughed,  and  declared  she  only  spoke  truth  in  saying  so. 
Mr.  Bryan  Kilcorban,  who  leaned  on  her  chair,  said,  “A  bill  should 
be  brought  into  the  house  to  tax  such  complexions;  for  kill  me,” 
continued  he,  “ the  ladies  are  so  irresistible  from  nature,  it  is  quite 
unconscionable  to  call  in  art  as  an  auxiliary.”  He  then  stalked  over 
to  Amanda,  who  sat  by  Lady  Greystock ; lolling  over  her  chair,  he 
declared,  “he  thought  the  tedious  iiours  w^ould  never  elapse,  till 
again  blessed  with  her  presence ; of  her,”  he  said,  “ it  was  sulficieiit 
to  have  but  one  glimpse  to  make  him  pant  for  the  second.”  A sum- 
mons to  dinner  relieved  her  from  his  nonsense : luxury  and  osten- 
tation were  conspicuous  in  the  fare  and  decorations  of  the  table,  and 
Amanda  never  felt  any  hours  so  tedious  as  those  she  passed  at  it; 
when  the  ladies  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  the  Miss  Kilcorbans 
and  their  companions  began  to  examine  and  admire  her  dress. 
“ What  a .pretty  pattern  this  gown  is  worked  in,”  said  one.  “ What 
a sweet,  becoming  cap  tins  is,”  cried  a second.  “ Well,  certainly  the 
English  milliners  have  a great  deal  of  taste ; my  dear,”  said  Miss 
Kilcorban,  whispering  Amanda,  “I  have  a monstrous  favour  to  ask 
of  you,”  drawing  her  at  the  same  instant  to  the  window.  “ I am 
sure,”  said  Amanda,  “any  in  my  power  to  grant,  I shall  with  plea- 
sure.” “ Oh,  really,  then,  it  is  in  your  power ; ’tis  only  to  refuse  the 
pattern  of  your  cap  to  any  girls  Avho  may  ask  you  for  it,  and  to  give 
it  to  me  and  my  sister;  you  can’t  conceive  how  we  doat  on  being  the 
first  time  in  the  fashion ; one  is  so  stared  at,  and  so  envied ; I detest 
anything  when  it  becomes  common;  you  can’t  think  how  we  are 
teased  every  summer,  when  we  return  from  Dublin,  for  fashions,  but 
\iQ  always  make  it  a point  to  refuse.  I must  tell  you  a delightful 
trick  I played  a friend  of  mine ; she  received  a large  present  of  tlie 
most  beautiful  muslins  from  India,  which  she  laid  by  till  I returned 
from  town,  supposing  I would  let  her  see  my  things,  as  I always  told 
her  I was  extremely  fond  of  her ; well,  I lent  her  a gown,  which  was 
quite  old-fashioned,  but  assured  her  it  was  the  very  newest  mode ; 
she  accordingly  had  her  beautiful  muslins  cut  in  imitation  of  it,  and 


154 


CHILDREN  OB'  THE  ABBEY, 


SO  spoiled  them  from  making  any  other  habit;  well,  we  met  as 
assize  ball,  Vvdiere  all  the  elegant  people  of  the  country  were  assem^ 
bled,  and,  I declare  I never  saw  so  ridiculous  a figure  as  she  made, 
when  she  found  herself  unlike  every  one  in  the  room;  I reallf 
thought  she  would  have  fainted,  and  that  my  sister  and  I should 
have  expired  with  laugliing;  poor  thing,  the  tears  absolutely  trickled 
down  her  cheeks:  don’t  you  think  it  was  a charming  trick?”  ‘‘Very 
much  so,”  said  Amanda,  “ I think  it  gave  a striking  specimen  of  your 
humour.”  “Well,  my  dear,”  exclaimed  Miss  Kilcorban,  without 
minding  the  marked  emphasis  of  Amanda’s  last  words,  “if  you  allow 
us,  my  sister  and  I will  call  upon  you  to-morrow,  and  look  over  your 
things.”  “ It  would  be  giving  yourselves  a great  deal  of  unnecessary 
trouble,”  replied  Amanda,  coolly,  who  did  not  by  any  means  relish 
tills  forward  proposal;  “my  tilings  can  boast  of  little  but  simplicity, 
and  I am  always  my  own  milliner.”  “Really,  well,  I protest  you 
have  a great  deal  of  taste ; my  maid,  who  is  very  handy,  would,  I 
think,  be  able  to  make  up  things  in  pretty  much  the  same  style,  if 
you  were  obliging  enough  to  give  her  patterns ; if  you  do,  perhaps 
you  will  add  to  the  favour,  and  allow  us  to  say  they  are  the  newest 
Bath  fashions.  Was  you  ever  at  Batli  ?”  “ hTo.”  “ Oh,  then,  I 

assure  you,  you  have  a monstrous, pleasure  to  come;  ’tis  the  sweetest 
place  on  earth,  quite  a paradise ; I declare  I thought  I should  have 
died  with  grief  at  leaving  it;  papa  has  been  inexorable  ever  since  to 
our  entreaties  for  a second  trip;  he  says  the  first  cost  too  much 
money;  indeed  it  was  an  enormous  sum;  only  tliink  how  much.” 
“ I am  the  worst  person  in  the  world,”  said  Amanda,  “ for  guessing,” 
sick  of  her  impertinent  volubility,  and  moving  from  the  window. 
The  evening  was  fine,  and  the  grounds  about  the  house  beautiful,  she 
therefore  proposed  a walk.  At  this  proposal,  the  young  ladies,  who 
had  hitherto  been  in  deep  confab,  looked  at  each  other,  and  remained 
silent  for  some  minutes  ; Miss  Kilcorban,  then,  who  had  no  notion  of 
gratifying  the  inclination  of  her  guest,  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  own, 
said,  “ it  blew  a little,  and  that  her  hair  would  be  ruined,  and  the 
Marchelle  powder  blowm  from  it,  by  such  a walk.”  Another  young 
lady,  looking  down  at  her  white  satin  slippers,  vowed  she  would  not 
venture  into  the  grass  for  worlds.  A third  declared  that  when  once 
dressed,  she  could  not  bear  to  be  tumbled.  Amanda  had  too  much 
politeness  to  repeat  her  wish,  and  it  was  therefore  unanimously 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


155 


agreed  among  the  fair  coterie,  that  they  should  continue  in  the  draw- 
ing-room to  be  in  statu  quo,  for  the  reappearance  of  the  beaux. 

Lady  Greystock  now  beckoned  to  our  heroine  to  take  a seat  by  her ; 
she  gladly  obeyed.  ‘‘Well,  my  dear,^^  said  her  ladyship,  “I  hope 
you  have  had  enough  of  these  country  misses,  these  would-be  misses 
of  the  ton.^^  Amanda  smiled  assentingly.  “ Heaven  defend  me  or 
any  one  I like,^^  continued  her  ladyship,  “from  their  clack;  the  con- 
fusion of  Babel  was,  I really  believe,  inferior  to  that  their  tongues 
create ; yet  some  people  have  the  absurdity  to  reckon  these  girls 
accomplished.  Poor  Mrs.  Kilcorban  torments  one  with  the  perfec- 
tions of  her  daughters ; against  they  are  disposed  of  (which  she 
imagines  will  be  very  soon)  she  has  a new  brood  of  graces  training  up 
to  bring  out ; mercy  on  me  ! what  a set  of  hoydens  ! IM  lay  my  life, 
at  this  very  instant  they  are  galloping  about  the  nursery,  like  a parcel 
of  wild  colts,  tearing  or  tormenting  an  unfortunate  French  governess, 
who  was  formerly  fille  de  chambre  to  a woman  of  quality,  and  does 
not  even  understand  the  grammatical  part  of  her  own  language.^^ 
“ Mrs.  Kilcorban’s  opinion  of  her  children,^^  said  Amanda,  “ is  natu- 
ral, considering  the  partiality  of  a parent.^^  “ Yes ; but  not  more 
bearable  on  that  account,^^  replied  her  ladyship,  “ and  I should 
endeavor  to  open  her  eyes  to  her  folly,  if  I thought  her  acquaint- 
ance would  forgive  my  depriving  them  of  such  a fund  of  amuse- 
ment.^^ 

Mr.  Bryan  Kilcorban,  with  some  gentlemen,  now  entered  the  room, 
and  advanced  to  Amanda.  “ So,”  said  he,  “ yon  have  got  by  the 
dowager ; hang  me,  but  I would  let  my  beard  grow,  if  all  women 
resembled  .her  in  their  dispositions.”  “By  way  of  app^nring  saga- 
ous  I suppose,”  said  her  ladyship,  who  w^as  extremely  quick,  and  had 
caught  the  last  words  ; “ alas  ! poor  youth,  no  embellishments  on  the 
exterior  would  ever  be  able  to  make  us  believe  the  tenement  within 
well  furnished.”  Her  ladyship  was  now  summoned  to  a whist  table, 
and  Miss  Kilcorban  immediately  took  her  vacant  sejit.  “ My  dear 
creature,”  said  she,  “ are  you  bored  to  death  ? Lady  Greystock  is  a 
queer  piece  I can  assure  you : I suppose  she  was  asking  some  favour 
from  you,  such  as  to  work  her  an  apron,  or  handkerchief : she  is 
noted  everywhere  for  requesting  such  little  jobs,  as  she  calls  them  ; 
indeed  we  should  never  put  up  with  the  trouble  she  gives  us,  but  tiiat 
she  is  vastly  rich,  and  papa’s  relation,  and  has  no  one  so  nearly 


156 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


connected  with  her  as  we  are.’^  ‘‘  All  very  good  reasons  for  your 
complaisance/^  replied  Amanda,  “ but  should  you  not  be  careful  in 
concealing  them  “ Oh  ! Lord  no ; every  one  knows  them  as  well 
as  we  do  ourselves ; she  was  here  last  summer,  and  took  a fancy  to 
the  pattern  of  an  apron  of  mine,  and  made  me  the  reasonable  request 
of  working  one  like  it  for  her ; all  this  she  pretended  was  to  prevent 
my  being  idle.  Well,  I said  I would,  and  wrote  up  to  the  Moravian 
house,  in  Dublin,  where  I had  got  mine,  for  one  exactly  like  it ; in 
due  time  I received  it,  and  presented  it  to  the  Dowager,  certain  that 
in  return  I should  receive  a few  of  her  diamond  pins,  which  she  had 
often  heard  me  admire ; they  are  the  prettiest  I ever  saw,  and  quite 
unfit  for  her,  but  she  had  the  cruelty  to  disappoint  me.^^  “ Upon  my 

faith,^^  cried  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  who  had  taken  a chair  at  the  other  side 
of  Am^anda,  and  listened  with  evident  pleasure  to  her  daughter's 
voluble  speech,  “ Lady  Greystock  is  an  odd  being  ; I never  met  with 
any  one  like  her  in  all  my  travels  through  England,  Ireland  and 
Wales  ; but  she  is  a great  orator,  and  possesses  the  gift  of  the  gab  in 
a wonderful  degree.’^ 

Ay,  indeed,  thought  Amanda,  and  you  and  your  fair  daughters 
resemble  her  in  that  respect.  After  tea  she  was  prevailed  on  to  sit 
down  to  commence,  but  she  soon  grew  as  tired  of  the  party  as  of  the 
game,  and  lost  on  purpose  to  be  released;  she  had  hoped  for  a little 
more  chat  with  Lady  Greystock,  but  her  ladyship  was  passionately 
fond  of  cards,  and  at  all  times  w'ould  have  preferred  the  pleasure  of  a 
card-table  to  the  eloquence  of  a Cicero.  Kilcorban,  on  finding  her 
disengaged,  tormented  her  with  absurd  compliments : a challenge  to 
a brag  table  at  length  relieved  her  from  his  nonsense,  and  she  loitered 
about  the  card  table  till  they  broke  up  for  supper. 

Amanda  always  expressed  to  her  father  her  sentiments  of  any  com- 
pany she  had  been  in,  and  those  she  now  delivered  on  quitting  the 
party,  perfectly  coincided  with  his ; he  laughed  at  the  account  which 
' the  Kilcorbans  had  given  of  Lady  Greystock,  to  whom  he  knew  they 
paid  the  most  extravagant  flattery,  in  hopes  of  obtaining  some  of  her 
large  fortune. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


157 


CHAPTER  XYIT. 

Remote  from  man,  with  God  they  pass’d  their  days. 

Prayer  all  their  business,  all  their  pleasure  praise. 

Pa&kel. 

Tue  following  evening  thty  were  engaged  at  a farmer’s  ; the  invita- 
tion was  given  with  snch  humility,  yet  pressed  with  such  warmth,  that 
they  could  not  avoid  accepting  it : and  jiccordingly  soon  after  dinner 
walked  to  the  house,  which  was  about  a mile  from  Castle  Carberry. 
It  was  a low  thatched  building ; every  appendage  to  it  bespoke  neat- 
ness and  comfort : it  was  situated  in  a beautiful  meadow,  enclosed 
from  the  road  by  a hawthorn  hedge,  and  on  the  opposite  side  lay  an 
extensive  common,  on  which  stood  the  stupendous  and  venerable 
ruins  of  an  abbey  called  St.  Catharine’s  ; they  appeared  a melancholy 
monument  of  the  power  of  time  over  strength  and  grandeur,  and, 
while  they  attracted  the  observation  of  the  curious,  excited  a sigh  in 
the  bosom  of  sensibility. 

The  farmer’s  family  consisted  of  three  daughters  and  two  sons, 
who  were  now  dressed  in  their  best  array ; they  had  assembled  a 
number  of  their  neighbours,  among  whom  was  a little  fat  priest, 
called  Father  O'Gallaghan,  considered  the  life  of  every  party,  and  a 
blind  piper ; the  room  was  small  and  crowded  with  furniture,  as  well 
as  company ; it  was  only  divided  from  the  kitchen  by  a short  passage, 
and  the  steam  of  hot  cakes,  and  the  smoke  of  a turf  fire,  which  issued 
thence,  soon  rendered  it  distressingly  warm.  Amanda  got  as  near 
the  window  as  possible,  but  still  could  not  procure  sufficient  air,  and 
as  every  thing  for  tea  was  not  quite  ready,  asked  one  of  the  Miss 
O’Flanaghans  if  she  would  accompany  her  to  St.  Catharine’s.  Slio 
answered  in  the  affirmative.  The  priest,  who  had  been  smirking  at 
her  ever  since  her  entrance,  now  shook  his  fat  sides,  and  said  he 
wished  he  could  get  her  initiated  there,  “ for  it  would  do  my  soul 
good,”  cried  he,  ‘‘  to  confess  such  a pretty  little  creature  as  you  are, 
though,  faith,  I believe  I should  find  you  like  Paddy  M’Denough,  who 
used  come  to  confession  every  Easter,  though  the  devil  a thing  the  poor 
man  had  to  confess  about  at  all,  at  all ; so  says  I to  him,  Paddy,  my 
jewel,  says  I,  I believe  I must  make  a saint  of  you,  and  lay  you  on 


158 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


the  aLar,”  “ Oh!  honey,  father,”  cried  he,  “ not  yet  a wliile,  till  1 
get  a new  suit  of  clothes  on,  which  I shall  by  next  Michaelmas.” 
Amanda  left  them  all  laughing  at  the  story,  and  her  father  engaged  in 
conversation  with  some  farmers,  who  were  desiring  his  interest  with 
Lord  Cherhury,  for  new  leases  on  moderate  terms. 

Amanda  had  about  a quarter  of  a mile  to  walk  across  the  common : 
the  ground  was  marshy  and  uneven,  and  numerous  stumps  of  trees 
denoted  its  having  once  been  a noble  forest,  of  which  no  memorial 
but  these  stumps,  and  a few  tall  trees  immediately  near  the  abbey, 
remained,  that  stretched  their  venerable  arms  around  it,  as  if  to 
shade  that  ruin  whose  progress  they  had  witnessed,  and  which 
Amanda  found  well  worthy  of  inspection.  She  was  equally  aston- 
ished at  its  elegance  and  extent ; with  sacred  awe  traversed  spacious 
cloisters,  the  former  walks  of  hol}^  meditation ; she  pursued  her  way 
through  winding  passages,  where  vestiges  of  cells  were  yet  discerni- 
ble, over  whose  mouldering  arches  the  grass  waved  in  rank  luxuri- 
ance, and  the  creeping  ivy  spread  its  gloomy  foliage,  and  viewed 
with  reverence  the  graves  of  those  who  had  once  inhabited  them. 
They  surrounded  that  of  the  founder’s,  which  was  distinguished  by 
a cross,  and  Miss  O’Flanaghan  related  the  traditions  that  were  cur- 
rent concerning  him.  He  was  a holy  monk,  who  had  the  care  of  a 
pious  lady’s  conscience;  she,  on  her  death-bed,  had  a remarkable 
dream,  or  vision,  in  which  she  thought  an  angel  appeared,  and 
charged  her  to  bequeath  her  wealth  to  her  confessor,  who  would,  no 
doubt,  make  a mucli  better  use  of  it  than  those  she  designed  it  for ; 
she  obeyed  the  sacred  injunction,  and  the  good  man  immediately  laid 
the  foundation  of  this  abbey,  which  he  called  after  his  benefactress, 
and  to  which  he  and  the  community  he  belonged  to  removed.  The 
chapel  was  roofless,  but  still  contained  many  relics  of  superstitious 
piety,  wdiich  had  escaped,  in  a tolerable  degree,  both  time  and 
weather:  saints  and  martyrs  were  curiously  cut,  over  the  places 
where  the  altars  and  cisterns  for  holy  water  had  once  stood,  to  which 
Amanda  passed  through  a long  succession  of  elegant  arche^  among 
wliich  were  a number  of  tombstones,  with  curious  devices,  and  unin- 
telligible inscriptions ; half  hid  in  grass  and  weeds,  on  a flag  which 
slie  perceived  must  have  been  lately  placed  there,  she  saw  some 
faded  flowers  strewn,  and  looking  at  her  companion,  saw  a tear 
dropping  from  her  on  them.  She  gently  asked  the  cause  of  it,  and 


OHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


159 


heard  a favon  dte  brother  was  interred  there.  The  girl  moved  from 
the  spot,  but  Amanda,  detained  by  an  irrepressible  emoiion,  staid  .s 
minute  longer  to  contemplate  the  awful  scene;  all  was  silent,  sad, 
and  solitary,  the  grass-grown  aisles  looked  long  untrodden  by  human 
foot,  the  green  and  mouldering  walls  appeared  ready  to  crumble  into 
atoms,  and  the  wind,  which  howled  through  their  crevices,  sounded 
to  the  ear  of  fancy,  as  sighs  of  sorrow  for  the  desolations  of  the 
place : full  of  moralizing  melancholy,  the  young,  the  lovely  Amanda, 
hung  over  the  grave  of  her  companion’s  youthful  brother,  and  talcing 
up  the  withered  flower,  wet  by  the  tears  of  sisterly  affection,  dropped 
another  on  it,  and  cried,  “ Oh  I how  flt  an  emblem  is  this  of  life,  how 
illustrative  of  these  words:  “Man  comes  forth  as  the  flower  of  tlio 
field,  and  is  soon  cut  down.” 

Miss  O’Flanaghan  now  led  her  through  some  more  windings,  when 
suddenly  emerging  from  them  she  found  herself,  to  lier  great  surprise, 
in  a large  garden,  entirely  encompassed  by  the  ruins,  and  in  tlie  cen- 
tre of  it  stood  a large  low  building,  which  lier  couipanion  informed 
her  was  a convent:  a folding  door  at  the  side  q^ened  into  the  chapel, 
w^hich  they  entered  and  found  a nun  praying. 

Amanda  drew  back,  fearful  of  disturbing  her;  but  Miss  OTlana- 
ghan  accosted  her  without  ceremony,  and  the  nun  returned  the  salu- 
tation, with  the  most  cordial  good  humour.  Slie  was  fifty,  as  Amanda 
afterwards  heard,  for  she  nev-er  could,  from  her  appearance,  have 
conceived  her  to  be  so  much:  her  skin  was  fair,  and  perfectly  free 
from  wrinkle,  the  bloom  and  down  upon  her  cheeks  as  bright  and 
soft  as  that  upon  a peach  : though  her  accent  at  once  proclaimed  her 
country,  it  was  not  unharmonious,  and  tlie  cheerful  obligingness  of 
her  manner  amply  compensated  the  want  of  elegance;  she  wore  the 
religious  habit  of  the  house,  which  Avas  a loose  flannel  dress,  bound 
round  her  A\aivSt  by  a girdle,  from  Avhich  hung  her  beads  and  a cross; 
a veil  of  the  same  stuff  descended  to  the  ground,  and  a mob  cap  and 
forehead  cloth  quite  concealed  her  hair.*  Miss  O’Flanaghan  presented 
Amanda  to  her,  as  a stranger  Avho  wished  to  see  every  thing  curious 
in  the  chapel.  “Ah!  my  honey,”  cried  she,  “I  am  sorry  she  has 
come  at  a time  when  she’ll  see  ns  all  in  the  dismals,  for  you  know 
we  are  in  mourning  for  our  prioress  (the  altar  was  hung  Avith  black ;) 

• The  abbey  and  the  nun,  which  the*author.has  endeavoured  to  describe,  were  such  as 
ehe  really  eaw,  but  in  a dififerent  part  of  Ireland  from  that  which  she  has  mentioned 


160 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


but,  my  de&r,  (turning  to  Amanda,)  do  you  mean  to  come  Lore  next 
Sunday,  foi  if  you  do,  you  will  find  us  all  bright  again Upon 
Amanda^s  answering  in  the  negative,  she  continued : “ Faith,  and  I 
am  sorry  for  that,  for  I have  taken  a great  fancy  to  you,  and  when  I 
like  a person,  I always  wish  them  as  great  a chance  of  happiness  as  I 
have  myself/'  Amanda  smiling,  said  she  believed  none  could  desire 
a greater ; and  the  nun  obligingly  proceeded  to  show  her  all  the  relics 
and  finery  of  the  chapels ; among  the  former  was  a head  belonging  to 
one  of  the  eleven  thousand  virgin  martyrs,  and  the  latter,  a chest  full 
of  rich  silks,  which  pious  ladies  had  given  for  the  purpose  of  dressing 
the  altar;  pulling  a drawer  from  under  it,  she  displayed  a quantity 
of  artificial  flowers,  which  she  said  were  made  by  the  sisters  and  their 
scholars.  Amanda  wished  to  make  a recompense  for  the  trouble  she 
had  given,  and  finding  they  were  to  be  sold,  purchased  a number,  and 
having  given  some  to  Miss  OTlanaghan,  whom  she  observed  viewing 
them  with  a wishful  eye,  she  left  the  rest  with  the  nun,  promising  to 
call  for  them  the  ensuing  day.  “Ay,  do,"  said  she,  “ and  you  may 
be  sure  of  a sincere  welcome ; you  will  see  a set  of  happy  poor  crea- 
tures, and  none  happier  than  myself.  I entered  the  convent  at  ten, 
I took  Yows  at  fifteen,  and  from  that  time  to  the  present,  which  is  a 
long  stretch,  I have  passed  a contented  life,  thanks  be  to  our  blessed 
lady,”  raising  her  sparkling  eyes  to  heaven.  They  ascended  a few 
steps  to  a place  where  the  community  sat;  it  w^as  divided  from  the 
body  of  the  chapel  by  a slight  railing;  here  stood  the  organ ; the  nun 
sighed  as  she  looked  at  it:  “Poor  sister  Agatha,”  cried  she,  “we 
shall  never  get  such  another  organist ; she  w^as  always  fit  indeed  for 
the  heavenly  choir.  Oh!  my  dear,”  turning  to  Amanda,  “had  you 
known  her  you  would  have  loved  her;  she  was  our  late  prioress ; and 
elected  to  that  office  at  twenty-nine,  which  is  reckoned  an  early  age 
for  it,  on  account  of  the  cleverness  it  requires ; she  had  held  it  but 
two  years  when  she  died,  and  we  were  never  so  comfortable  as 
during  her  time,  she  managed  so  well ; the  mourning  in  the  chapel, 
as  I have  already  told  you,  will  be  over  for  her  next  Sunday,  but 
that  which  is  in  our  hearts  will  not  be  so  speedily  removed.”  Miss 
O’Flanaghan  now  reminded  Amanda  it  was  time  to  return,  to  which 
with  secret  reluctance  she  consented ; the  nun  pressed  her  to  stay  U 
tea,  but  on  hearing  of  her  engagement  only  reminded  her  of  the  pro- 
mised visit.  In  their  walk  back  her  companion  informed  Amanda 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


101 


that  the  society  consisted  of  twelve  nuns;  their  little  fortunea 
though  sunk  in  one  common  fund,  were  insufficient  to  supply  their 
necessities,  wffiich  compelled  them  to  keep  a day  school,  in  which 
the  neighbouring  children  were  instructed  in  reading,  writing,  i)lain 
work,  embroidery,  and  artificial  flowers;  she  also  added  that  tho 
nuns  were  allowed  to  go  out,  but  few’  availed  themselves  of  that 
liberty,  and  that,  except  in  fasting,  they  were  strangers  to  the  austeri- 
ties practiced  in  foreign  convents. 

For  such  a society  Amanda  thought  nothing  could  be  better 
adapted  than  the  present  situation  sheltered  by  the  ruins,  like  the 
living  entombed  among  the  dead,  their  wishes,  like  their  views,  w^ere 
bounded  by  the  mouldering  walls,  as  no  object  appeared  beyond 
them  which  could  tempt  their  wandering  from  their  usual  limits  ; the 
dreary  common  which  met  the  view,  could  not  be  more  bleak  and 
inhospitable  than  the  world  in  general  would  have  proved  to  the 
children  of  poverty  and  nature. 

Father  O’Gallaghan  met  the  ladies,  at  the  door,  and,  familiarly  tak 
ing  Amanda’s  hand,  said,  “ Why  you  have  staid  long  enough  to  be 
made  a nun  of ; here  (said  he),  the  cakes  are  buttered,  the  tea  made, 
and  we  all  Tvaiting  for  you:  ah!  you  little  rogue,”  smirking  in  her 
face,  “ by  the  head  af  St.  Patrick,  those  twiiiklers  of  yours  were  not 
given  for  the  good  of  your  soul ; here  you  are  come  to  play  pell-meP 
among  the  hearts  of  the  honest  Irish  lads  ; ah ! the  devil  a doubt  but 
you  will  have  mischief  enough  to  answer  for  by  and  by,  and  then  I 
suppose  you  will  be  coming  to  me  to  confess  and  absolve  you ; but 
remember,  my  little  honey,  if  you  do  I must  be  paid  beforehand.” 
Amanda  disengaged  her  hand,  and  entered  the  parlour,  where  the 
company,  by  a display  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  on  their  laps,  seemed 
prepared  to  make  a downright  meal  of  the  good  things  before  them ; 
the  Miss  O’Flanaghans,  from  the  toils  of  the  tea  table,  at  last  grew  as 
red  as  the  ribbon  with  which  they  were  profusely  ornamented ; the 
table  at  length  removed,  the  chairs  arranged,  and  the  benches 
placed  in  the  passage  for  the  old  folks,  the  signal  for  a dance  was 
given,  by  the  piper’s  playing  an  Irish  jig ; the  farmer’s  eldest  son, 
habited  in  a new  sky-blue  coat,  his  hair  combed  sleek  on  his  forehead, 
and  his  complexion  as  bright  as  a full  blown  poppy,  advanced  to  our 
heroine,  and  begged,  with  much  modesty,  and  many  bows,  slia 
would  do  him  the  favor  to  stand  up  with  him ; she  hesitated  a little, 


162  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEJT, 

wlien  Father  O’Gallaghan,  giving  her  a tap,  or  rather  slap,  on  the 
shoulder,  made  her  start  suddenly  from  her  scat ; he  laughed  heartily 
at  this,  declaring,  he  liked  to  see  a girl  alive  and  merry  ; as  he  could 
not  join  in  the  dance,  he  consoled  himself  with  being  master  of  the 
ceremonies,  and  insisted  on  Amanda’s  dancing  and  leading  off  the 
j)riest  in  his  hoots ; she  felt  little  inclined  to  comply,  but  she  was  one 
of  those  who  can  sacrifice  their  own  inclinations  to  that  of  others ; 
being  directed  in  the  figure  by  the  priest,  she  went  down  the  dance, 
but  the  floor  being  an  earthen  one,  by  the  time  she  concluded  it,  she 
begged  they  would  excuse  her  sitting  the  remainder  of  the  evening, 
she  felt  so  extremely /fatigued ; she  and  Fitzalan  would  gladly  have 
declined  staying  to  supper,  but  this  they  found  impossible,  without 
either  greatly  mortifying,  or  absolutely  offending  their  hospitable 
entertainers. 

The  table  was  covered  with  a profusion  of  good  country  fare,  and 
none  seemed  to  enjoy  it  more  truly  than  the  priest : in  the  intervals 
of  eating,  his  jests  flew  about  in  every  direction:  the  scope  he  gave 
to  his  vivacity  exhilarated  the  rest,  so  that,  like  Falstaff,  he  was  not 
only  witty  himseif,  but  a prompter  of  wit  in  others.  “ Pray,  father,” 
said  a young  man  to  him,  “ what  do  you  give  in  return  for  all  the 
good  cheer  you  get?”  “My  blessing,  to  be  sure,”  replied  he,  “ what 
better  could  I give?”  “Ay,  so  you  may  think,  but  that  is  not  the 
case  with  us  all,  I promise  you ; ’tis  so  pat,  I must  tell  you  a story 
about  that  same  thing  called  a priest’s  blessing. — ^A  poor  man  went 
one  day  to  a priest,  who  had  the  name  of  being  very  rich,  and  very 
charitable ; but  as  all  we  hear  is  not  gospel,  so  the  poor  man  doubted 
a little  the  truth  of  the  latter  report,  and  resolved  on  trying  him — 
“Father,”  says  he,  “I  have  met  with  great  losses:  my  cabin  was 
burned,  my  pigs  stolen,  and  my  cow  fell  into  a ditch  and  broke  her 
neck ; so  I am  come  to  ask  your  reverence,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  to 
lend  me  a crown.” — “ A crown,”  repeated  the  angry  and  astonished 
priest,  “ oh ! you  rogue,  where  do  you  think  I could  get  money  to 
lend,  except,  like  yourself,  I had  pilfered  and  stolen?” — “Oh ! that  is 
neither  here  nor  there,”  replied  the  man,  “ you  know  I cleared  the 
score  on  my  conscience  with  you  long  ago ; so  tell  me,  father,  if  you 
will  lend  me  half  a crown?”  “No,  nor  a shilling;”  “Well,  a far- 
thing then,  anything  from  such  a good  man  as  you.”  “No,”  said 
the  priest,  “not  a mite.”  Mayn’t  I have  your  blessing  then—- 


OniLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


163 


Qfiked  the  man.  “Oh!,  that  yon  shall  and  welcome,”  replied  he. 
smiling.  “ Why  then,  father,”  returned  the  other,  “ I would  refuse 
it  if  you  forced  it  upon  me,  for  d’ye  see,  had  it  been  worth  one  far- 
thing you  would  have  refused  it  to  me.” 

“ You  have  put  me  in  mind  of  a very  curious  story,”  exclaimed 
another  young  man,  as  this  one  concluded  his.  “ A young  knight 
went  into  a chapel  in  Spain  one  morning,  where  he  observed  a monk 
standing  in  a supplicating  attitude,  with  a box  in  his  hand : he 
asked  him  wliat  this  was  foi*,  and  learned,  to  collect  money  for  pray- 
ing the  souls  c:  fifty  Christians  out  of  purgatory,  whom  the  Moors 
had  murdered : the  knight  threw  a piece  of  money  into  the  box,  and 
the  monk,  after  repeating  a short  prayer,  exclaimed,  “ there  is  one 
soul  redeemed.”  The  knight  threw  in  a second,  and  the  priest,  after 
the  same  ceremony,  cried,  “ there  is  another  free.”  Thus  they  both 
went  on,  one  giving  and  the  other  praying,  till,  by  the  monk’s  account, 
all  the  souls  were  free  : “ Are  you  sure  of  this  ?”  inquired  the  knight. 
“Ay,”  replied  the  priest,  they  are  all  assembled  together,  at  the 
gate  of  heaven,  which  St.  Peter  gladly  opened  for  them,  and  they 
are  now  joyfully  seated  in  Paradise.”  “ From  whence  they  cannot 
be  removed,  I suppose?”  said  the  knight.  “Eemoved!”  repeated 
the  astonished  priest,  “no  the  world  itself  might  be  easier  removed.” 
“ Then  if  you  please,  holy  father,  return  me  my  ducats ; they  have 
accomplished  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  given,  and  as  I am 
only  a poor  cavalier,  without  chance  of  being  as  happily  situated,  at 
least  for  some  years,  as  the  souls  we  have  mutually  contributed  to 
release,  I stand  in  great  need  of  them.” 

Fitzalan  was  surprised  at  the  freedom  with  which  they  treated  the 
priest,  but  he  laughed  as  merrily  as  the  rest  at  their  stories,  for  ho 
knew  that  though  they  sometimes  allovfed  themselves  a little  latitude, 
they  neither  wished  nor  attempted  to  shake  oil*  his  power. 

Fitzalan  and  Amanda  withdrew  as  early  as  possible  from  the  party, 
which  if  it  wanted  every  pther  charm,  had  that  of  novelty,  at  least  to 
them.  The  next  morning  Amanda  repaired  to  the  convent,  and 
inquired  for  sister  Mary,  the  good-natured  nun  she  had  seen  the 
preceding  evening ; she  immediately  made  her  appearance,  and  was 
delighted  at  seeing  Amanda ; she  conducted  her  to  the  school-room, 
where  the  rest  of  the  nuns  and  the  pupils  were  assembled,  and 
Amanda  was  delighted  with  the  content  and  regularity  which 


104 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


appeared  in  the  society,  as  well  as  the  obliging  eagerness  they  showed 
to  gratify  her  curiosity ; they  led  her  through  the  house,  which  con- 
tained a number  of  apartments,  every  nun  having  one  to  herself,  fur- 
nished with  a bed,  chair,  table,  and  crucifix,  and  then  to  the  parlour, 
where  their  new  prioress  sat;  she  was  a woman  far  advanced  in 
life ; had  a painter  wanted  to  personify  benevolence,  he  might  have 
chosen  her  for  a model,  so  soft,  so  benignant,  was  her  countenance : 
sorrow  as  well  as  time  had  marked  it  deeply,  but  the  mild  expression 
of  her  eyes  announced  the  most  perfect  resignation  to  that  sorrow: 
she  received  Amanda  with  the  truest  politeness  and  most  friendly 
warmth,  and  Amanda  felt  impressed  with  real  reverence  for  her, 
whilst  she  acknowledged  in  her  mind  there  could  not  be  a happier 
situation  for  her  than  her  present,  she  thought  it  a pity  the  world 
had  been  deprived  of  a woman  who  would  have  proved  such  an  orna- 
ment to  it.  Sister  Alary  disappeared,  but  returned  in  a few  minutes 
with  cakes  and  currant  wine,  which  she  forced  Amanda  to  take ; the 
good  sister  was  enchanted  with  her  young  visitor,  and  having  no  idea 
of  concealing  her  feelings,  she  openly  expressed  her  admiration. — 
‘‘Dear  mother,”  said  she,  addressing  the  prioress,  “is  she  not  a lovely 
creature?  What  }>retty  eyes  she  has  got,  and  what  sweet  little  hands. 
Oh ! if  our  blessed  lady  would  but  touch  lier  heart  and  make  her 
become  one  of  us,  I should  be  so  happy.”  The  prioress  smiled,  she 
was  not  so  great  an  entliusiast  as  sister  Mary.  “ It  would  be  a pity  ” 
said  she,  “ so  sweet  a flower  should  be  hid  among  the  ruins  of  St. 
Catharine’s.” 

Amanda  made  an  addition  to  her  flowers,  she  was  tlianked  by  the 
nuns,  and  entreated  to  favour  them  often  with  a visit ; just  as  she 
reached  Castle  Carberry  she  saw  the  Kilcorbans’  carriage  stop  at  it, 
from  which  the  Lady  Greystock  and  the  young  ladies  alighted;  they 
both  spoke  at  once,  and  so  extremely  fast,  that  Amanda  scarcely 
understood  what  they  said;  they  declared  a thousand  impertinent 
visitors  had  prevented  their  coming  the  preceding  morning,  and 
looking  at  the  things  she  had  obligingly  promised  to  show  them. — 
Amanda  recollected  no  such  promise,  but  would  not  contradict  them, 
and  permitted  their  taking  what  patterns  they  liked.  Lady  Greystock 
smiled  sarcastically  at  her  young  kinswoman,  and  expressed  a wish  to 
see  tlie  castle.  Amanda  led  her  through  it:  her  ladyship  was  parti- 
cularly pleased  with  the  dressing-room ; here  the  young  ladies,  with 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


165 


rude  and  eager  curiosity,  examined  every  thing,  but  her  ladyship, 
who  was  full  as  curious  as  themselves,  could  not  condemn  freedoms 
she  took  herself ; observing  a petticoat  in  a tambour  frame,  she 
admired  the  pattern,  and  hearing  it  was  designed  by  Amanda,  ex- 
tolled her  fine  taste,  and  declared  she  should  of  all  things,  like  to 
have  one  worked  in  the  same ; this  hint  was  too  plain  to  pass  unno- 
ticed. Amanda  wished  to  oblige  particularly  any  one  advanced  in 
life,  and  told  her  she  would  work  one  for  her.  Lady  Greystock  smiled 
most  graciously  at  this,  and  pressing  her  hand,  declared  she  was  a 
charming  girl.  The  Miss  Kilcorbans  winked  slyly,  and  taking  her 
hand  in  turn,  assured  her  they  had  conceived  a most  ardent  friend- 
ship ^or  her,  and  hoped  she  would  often  favour  them  with  her  com- 
pany. Amanda  answered  these  insincere  professions  with  cold  civility, 
and  the  visitors  departed. 


ClIAPTEE  XYIir. 

Oh  ! fields,  oh  I woods,  when,  when  shall  I be  made 
The  happy  tenanl;  of  your  shade. 

Cowley. 

Solitude  to  Amanda  was  a luxury,  as  it  afforded  her  opportunities 
of  indulging  the  ideas  on  Avhich  her  heart  delighted  to  dwell ; she  yet 
believed  she  should  see  Lord  Mortimer,  and  that  Lord  Oherbury’s 
sanctioning  their  attachment  would  remove  the  delicate  scruples  of 
her  father.  From  soothing  his  passing  hours,  beguiling  her  own  with 
the  accomplishments  she  possessed,  and  indulging  tlie  tender  sugges- 
tions of  hope,  a pleasure  arose  she  thought  ill  changed  for  the  trilling 
gaiety  of  the  parties  she  was  frequently  invited  to ; she  was  never  at 
a loss  for  amusements  within  Castle  Carberry,  or  about  its  domain ; 
the  garden  became  the  object  of  her  peculiar  care;  its  situation  was 
romantic,  and  long  neglect  had  added  to  its  natural  wildness. 
Amanda,  in  many  places,  discovered  vestiges  of  taste,  and  wished  to 
restore  ail  to  primeval  beauty ; the  fruit  trees  were  matted  together, 
the  alleys,  grass-grown,  and  the  flowers  choked  with  weeds ; on  one 
ude  lay  a small  wilderness,  which  surrounded  a Gothic  temple,  and 
m 11)0  otlier,  green  slopes  with  masses  of  naked  rock  projectinj/ 


166  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

through  them  ; a flight  of  rugged  steps,  cut  in  the  living  rock,  led  to 
a cave  on  the  summit  of  one  of  the  highest ; a cross,  rudely  carved 
upon  the  wall,  and  the  remains  of  a matted  couch,  denoted  this  having 
formerly  been  a hermitage ; it  overhung  the  sea,  and  all  about  it 
were  tremendous  crags,  against  which  the  waves  beat  with  violence ; 
over  a low  and  arched  door  was  a smooth  stone,  with  the  following 
lines  engraved  upon  it : — 

The  pilgrim  oft 

At  dead  of  night  ’mid  his  orisons  hears 
Aghast  the  voice  of  time — disparting  towers, 

Tumbling  all  precipitate  down,  dash’d 
Rattling  around,  loud  thundering  to  the  moon 

Dye. 

Under  Amanda^s  superintending  care,  the  garden  soon  lost  its  rudo 
appearance,  a new  couch  was  procured  for  the  hermitage,  which  she 
ornamented  with  shells  and  sea  weeds,  rendering  it  a most  delightful 
recess,  the  trees  were  pruned,  the  alleys  cleared  of  opposing  brambles, 
and  over  the  wall  of  the  Gothic  temple  she  hung  the  flowers  she  had 
purchased  at  St.  Catherine's,  in  fanciful  wreaths. 

She  often  as^-.ended  the  devious  path  of  the  mountain*  which 
stretched  beyond  Castle  Garben^y,  and  beheld  the  waves  glittering  in 
the  sunbeams,  from  Avhich  its  foliage  sheltered  her.  But  no  visionary 
pleasure,  no  delightful  rambles,  no  domestic  avocations,  made  her 
forgetful  of  the  calls  of  benevolence ; she  visited  the  haunts  of  poverty 
and  relieved  its  necessities  to  the  utmost  of  her  power ; the  wretched- 
ness so  often  conspicuous  among  many  of  the  lower  rank,  filled  her 
not  only  with  compassion,,  but  surprise,  as  she  had  imagined  that 
liberty  and  a fruitful  soil  'were  generally  attended  with  comfort  and 
prosperity ; her  father,  to  whom  she  communicated  this  idea, 
informed  lier  that  the  indigence  of  the  peasants  proceeded  in  a great 
degree  from  the  emigration  of  their  landlords ; “ Their  wealth,”  said 
he,  “is  spent  in  foreign  lands,  instead  of  enriching  those  from  whence 
it  was  drawn ; policy  should  sometimes  induce  them  to  visit  tlieir 
estates ; the  revenue  of  half  a year  spent  on  them  would  necessarily 
benefit  the  poor  wretches,  whose  labours  have  contributed  to  raise  it, 
and  by  exciting  their  gratitude,  and  inclination  to  industry  conse- 
quently augment  tlieir  profits. 

“ The  clouds,  which  are  formed  by  mists  and  exhalations,  return 
from  the  places  from  whence  they  were  drawn,  in  fertilizing  showers 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


167 


and  refresliing  dews,  and  almost  every  plant  enriclios  the  soil  from 
which  it  sprung ; ^future,  indeed,  in  all  her  wmrks  is  a glorious  pre- 
cedent to  man,  hut  while  enslaved  by  dissipation,  he  cannot  follow 
her  example,  and  what  exquisite  sources  of  enjoyment  does  he  lose — - 
to  lighten  the  toils  of  labour,  to  cheer  the  child  of  poverty,  to  raise 
the  drooping  head  of  merit ! — Oh  I how  superior  to  the  revels  of  dis- 
sipation, or  the  ostentation  of  wealth. 

‘‘  Keal  happiness  is  forsaken  for  a gaudy  phantom  called  pleasure; 
she  is  seldom  grasped  but  for  a moment,  yet  in  that  moment  has 
power  to  fix  envenomed  stings  within  the  breast ; the  heart  which 
delights  in  domestic  joys,  which  rises  in  pious  gratitude  to  Heaven, 
which  melts  at  human  woe,  can  alone  experience  true  pleasure. 
The  fortitude  with  which  the  peasants  bear  their  sulFerings,  should 
cure  discontent  of  its  murmurs,  they  support  adversity  without  com- 
plaining, and  those  who  possess  a pile  of  turf  against  the  severity 
of  winter,  a small  strip  of  ground,  planted  with  cabbage  and  potatoes, 
a cow,  a pig,and  some  poultry,  think  themselves  completely  happy, 
though  one  wretched  hovel  shelters  all  alike. 

Oh  1 how  rapturous,  thought  Amanda,  the  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer’s 
feeling  recurring  to  her  mind,  to  change  such  scenes,  to  see  the  clay- 
built  hovel  vanish,  and  a dwelling  of  neatness  and  convenience  rise  in 
its  stead ; to  wander,  continued  she,  with  him  whose  soul  is  fraught 
with  sensibility,  and  view  the  project  of  benevolence,  realized  by  the 
hand  of  charity,  the  faded  cheek  of  misery  regain  the  glow  of 
health — 

“ The  desert  blossom  as  the  rose,” 

and  content  and  cheerfulness  sport  beneath  its  shades. 

From  such  an  ecstatic  reverie  as  this,  Amanda  was  roused  one 
morning,  by  the  entrance  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  Lady  Greystock,  into 
the  dressing  room  where  she  was  working.  “ Oh ! my  dear,”  cried 
the  eldest  of  the  young  ladies,  “we  have  such  enchanting  news  to  tell 
you : only  think  who  is  coming  down  here  immediately,  your  uncle, 
and  aunt-  and  cousin:  an  express  came  this  morning  from  Dublin 
where  tney  now  are,  to  the  steward  at  Ulster  Lodge,  to  have  every 
thing  prepared  against  next  week  for  them.”  “ I declare,”  said  Misa 
Alicia,  “ I shall  quite  envy  you  the  delightful  amusement  you  shall 
have  with  thorn.”  Amanda  blushed  and  felt  a little  confused;  “ You 


168 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


will  have  no  reason  then,  I fancy,'’  replied  she,  ‘^for  really  I do  not 
know  them.” 

“Oh  Lord!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kilcorhan,  “well  that  is  very  comical^ 
not  know  your  own  relations ; hut  perhaps  they  alwmys  lived  in 
Scotland,  and  you  were  afraid  to  cross  the  sea  to  pay  them  a visit.” 

“If  that  was  the  only  fear  she  had,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  with  a 
satirical  smile,  “ she  could  easily  have  surmounted  it ; besides,  would 
it  not  have  held  good  with  respect  to  one  place  as  well  as  another  ?” 
“•Well,  I never  thought  of  that,”  cried  Mrs.  Kilcorhan;  “hut  pray, 
miss,  may  I ask  the  reason  why  you  did  not  know  them  by  letter?” 

“It  can  he  of  very  little  consequence  to  you,  madam,”  replied 
Amanda,  cooUy,  “ to  hear  it.” 

“They  say  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  is  very  accomplished,” 
exclaimed  Miss  Kilcorhan,  “ so  a correspondence  with  her  would  have 
been  delightful  ? I dare  say  you  write  sweetly  yourself ; so  if  ever 
you  leave  Castle  Carherry,  I beg  you  wull  favour  me  with  letters,  for 
of  all  things  I doat  on  a sentimental  correspondence.” 

“Ko  wonder,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “you  are  so  particularly  well 
qualified  to  support  one.” 

“But,  my  dear,”  resumed  Miss  Kilcorhan,  “we  are  to  give  the 
most  enchanting  hall  that  ever  was  given  in  this  world : papa  says, 
we  shall  have  full  liberty  to  do  as  we  please  respecting  it.”  “It 
will  he  a troublesome  afiair,  I am  afraid,”  said  Mrs.  Kilcorhan.  “We 
are  to  have  confectioners  and  French  cooks  from  Dublin,”  continued 
her  daughter,  without  minding  this  interruption,  “every  thing  is  to 
he  quite  in  style,  and  prepared  against  the  third  night  of  the  marquis’s 
and  marchioness’s  arrival ; so,  my  dear,  you  and  your  papa  will  hold 
yourselves  in  readiness  for  our  summons.”  Amanda  bowed.  “ My 
sister  and  I are  to  have  dancing  dresses  from  town,  hut  I will  not. 
give  you  an  idea  of  the  manner  in  which  we  have  ordered  them  to 
be  made;  I assure  you,  you  will  he  absolutely  surprised  and  charmed, 
when  you  see  them ; all  the  elegant  men  in  the  country  will  be  at  our 
entertainment ; I dare  say  you  will  he  vastly  busy  in  preparing  tor* 
it.” 

“ Nature,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “ has  been  too  bounteous  to  Miss 
Eitzalan,  to  render  such  preparations  necessary.”  “Oh  lord!”  cried 
the  young  ladies  with  a toss  of  their  heads,  “Miss  Eitzalan  is  not 
Buch  a foo\  I suppose,  as  to  wish  to  appear  unlike  any  one  else  in  her 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


169 


dress ; but,”  rising  with  their  mamma,  and  saluting  her  much  more 
formally  than  they  had  done  at  their  entrance,  “ she  is  the  best  judge 
of  that.” 

Fitzalan  had  never  seen  the  marchioness  since  his  marriage,  nor  did 
lie  ever  again  wish  to  behold  her ; the  inhumanity  with  which  she 
had  treated  her  lovely  sister;  the  malice  with  which  she  had  aug- 
mented her  father’s  resentment  against  that  poor  sufferer,  had  so 
strongly  prepossessed  his  mind  with  the  ideas  of  the  selfishness  and 
implacability  of  hers,  as  to  excite  sentiments  of  distaste  and  aversion 
for  her ; he  considered  her  as  the  usurper  of  his  children’s  rights ; as 
accessary  to  the  death  of  his  adored  Malvina,  and  consequently  the 
author  of  the  agonies  he  endured — agonies  which  time,  aided  by  reli- 
gioEL,  could  scarcely  conquer. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Oh  love,  how  are  thy  precious,  sweetest  minute^. 

Thus  ever  cross’d,  thus  vex’t  with  disappointments 
Now  pride,  now  fickleness,  fantastic  quarrels, 

And  sullen  coldness  give  us  pain  by  turns. 

Rows. 

A T the  expected  time,  the  marquis- and  his  family  arrived,  with  groat 
splendour,  at  Ulster  Lodge,  which  was  immediately  crowded  with 
Tisitors  of  the  first  consequence  in  the  country,  among  whom  were 
the  Kilcorbans,  whose  affluent  fortune  gave  them  great  respectability. 
Mi.  Kilcorban  wished,  indeed,  to  be  first  in  paying  his  compliments 
to  the  marquis,  who  had  a borough  in  his  disposal,  he  was  desirous  of 
being  returned  for:  disappointed  the  last  time  he  sat  up  as  one  of  the 
candidates  for  the  county,  this  was  his  only  chance  of  entering  that 
house  he  had  long  been  ambitious  for  a seat  in ; he  knew,  indeed,  his 
•oratoi-ical  powers  were  not  very  great,  often  saying  he  had  not  the 
gift  of  the  gab  like  many  of  the  honourable  gentlemen:  but  then 
be  should  stamp  and  stare,  and  look  up  to  gods  and  goddesses,* 
for  their  approbation  with  the  best  of  them ; and  besides,  his  being  a 

• Ladies  are  admitted  Into  the  gallwy  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons. 

8 


170  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

member  of  parliament,  would  increase  bis  consequence,  at  least  in 
the  country. 

The  female  part  of  his  family  went  from  Ulster  Lodge  to  Castle  Car- 
berry,  which  they  entered  with  a more  consequential  air  than  eyer, 
as  if  they  derived  new  consequence,  from  the  visit  they  had  been 
paying : instead  of  flying  up  to  Amanda,  as  usual,  the  young  ladies 
swam  into  the  room,  with  what  they  imagined  a most  bewitching 
elegance,  and  making  a sliding  courtesy,  flung  themselves  upon  a sofa 
exactly  opposite  the  glass,  and  alternately  viewed  themselves,  and 
pursued  their  remarks  on  Lady  Euphrasia’s  dress ; “Well,  certainly, 
Alicia,”  said  Miss  Kilcorban,  “I  will  have  a morning  gown  made 
in  imitation  of  her  lady  siiip’s ; that  frill  of  fine  lace  about  the  neck,  is 
the  most  becoming  thing  in  nature ; and  the  pale  blue  lining  sv/eetly 
adapted  for  a delicate  complexion.” — “ I think,  Charlotte,”  cried  Miss 
Alica,  “ I will  have  my  tambour  muslin  in  the  same  style,  but  lined 
with  pink  to  set  off  the  work.” 

“This  aunt  of  yours,  my  dear,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  “is 
really  a personable  looking  woman  enough,  and  her  daughter  a 
pretty  little  sort  of  body.” 

“ Oh  they  are  charming  creatures,”  cried  both  the  young  ladies, 
“ so  elegant,  so  irresistibly  genteel.” 

“Your  ideas  and  mine,  then,”  said  Lady  Grey  stock,  “ differ  widely 
about  elegance,  and  irresistibility,  if  you  usciibe  either  to  the  ladies 
in  question.  Mr.  Kilcorban,”  continued  she,  turning  to  Amanda, 
“ fearing,  I believe,  my  lord  marquis  would  fly  across  the  seats  in  a 
few  hours,  and  that  he  might  catch  him  ere  he  took  wing,  never 
ceased  tormenting  us,  from  the  time  breakfast  was  over  till  we 
entered  the  carriage,  to  make  haste,  though  he  might  have  known  it 
was  quite  too  early  for  fine  folks  to  be  visible. 

“Well,  we  posted  off  to  Ulster  Lodge,  as  if  life  and  death 
depended  on  our  despatch;  Mr.  Kilcorban  was  ushered  into  th^ 
marquis’s  study,  and  we  into  an  empty  room,  to  amuse  ourselves.  If 
we  pleased,  with  the  portraits  of  the  marquis’s  ancestors.  Whilst 
bells  in  all  quarters  were  tingling — maids  and  footmen  running  up 
and  down  stairs,  and  cats,  dogs,  monkeys  and  parrots,  who  I found 
composed  part  of  their  travelling  retinue,  were  scratcliing,  barking 
chattering  and  screaming  in  a room  contiguous  to  the  one  w« 
occupied.  At  length  a fine  perfumed  jessamy  made  his  appearance^, 
and  saying  the  ladies  were  ready  to  have  the  honour  of  receiving 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBET. 


in 


plrippod  up  stairs  like  an  Har.equiii.  The  marchioness  advanced 
&])Out  t^>vo  steps  from  her  couch  to  receive  us,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  half 
rose  from  her  seat,  after  contemplating  us  for  a minute,  to  know 
whether  we  were  to  he  considered  as  human  creatures  or  not,  sunk 
back  into  her  former  attitude  of  elegant  languor,  and  continued  her 
conversation  with  a young  nobleman,  who  has  accompanied  them 
from  England.” 

“ Well,  I hope  you  will  allow  he  is  a divine  creature,”  exclaimed 
Miss  Kilcorban,  in  an  accent  of  rapture;  “Oh,  what  eyes  he  has,” 
cried  her  sister,  “ what  an  harmonious  voice,  I really  never  beheld  anj' 
one  one  so  exquisitely  handsome.” 

“ Lord  Mortimer,  indeed,”  said  Lady  Greystock ; Amanda  started, 
blushed,  turned  pale — panted  as  if  for  breath,  and  started  as  if  in 
amazement.  “Bless  me.  Miss  Fitzalan,”  asked  her  ladyship,  “are 
you  ill?” — “Ko,  madam,”  replied  Amanda,  in  a trembling  voice, 
“ 'tis  only — ’tis  only  a little  palpitation  of  the  heart  I am  subject  to . 
I have  interrupted  your  ladyship,  pray  proceed.” — “Well,  continued 
Lady  Greystock,  “ I was  saying  that  Lord  Mortimer  was  one  of  the 
most  elegant  and  engaging  young  men  I had  ever  beheld ; his  expres- 
sive eyes  seemed  to  reprove  the  folly  of  his  fair  companion,  and  her 
neglect  made  him  doubly  assiduous,  which  to  me  was  a most  con- 
vincing proof  of  a noble  mind.” 

How  did  the  heart  of  Amanda  swell  with  pleasure,  at  this  warm 
eulogism  on  Lord  Mortimer  : the  tear  of  delight,  of  refined  aflTection, 
sprung  to  her  eye,  and  could  scarcely  be  prevented  falling. 

“ Lord,  madam,”  cried  Miss  Kilcorban,  whose  pride  was  mortified 
at  Amanda’s  hearing  of  the  cool  reception  they  had  met  with ; “ 1 
can’t  conceive  the  reason  you  ascribe  such  rudeness  and  conceit  to 
Lady  Euphrasia : ’tis  really  quite  a misconstruction  of  the  etiquette 
necessary  to  be  observed  by  people  of  rank.” 

“I  am  glad,  my  dear,”  replied  Lady  Greystock,  “you  are  now 
beginning  to  profit  by  the  many  lessons  T have  given  you  on 
humility.” 

“ I assure  you,  miss,”  said  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  “ I did  not  forget  to  tell 
the  marchioness  she  had  a niece  in  the  neighbourhood:  I thought, 
indeed,  she  seemed  a little  shy  on  the  subject,  so  I suppose  there  has 
been  a difference  in  the  families,  particularly  as  you  don’t  visit  her ; 
but  at  our  ball,  perhaps  every  thing  may  be  settled.”  Amanda  made 
no  reply  to  this  speech,  and  the  ladies  departed. 


172 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEP. 


Her  bosom,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  was  agitated  witli  tbe  most 
violent  perturbations,  on  hearing  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  being  in  tbe 
neighbourhood ; the  pleasure  she  felt  at  the  first  intelligence,  gradually 
subsided  on  reflecting  he  was  an  inmate,  probably  a friend,  to  those 
relations  who  had  contributed  to  the  destruction  of  her  mother; 
and  who,  from  the  character  she  had  heard  of  them,  it  was  not 
uncharitable  to  think,  would  feel  no  great  regret,  if  her  children 
experienced  a destiny  equally  severe ; might  they  not  imbibe  some 
prejudices  against  her  into  his  bosom ; to  know  she  was  the  child  of 
the  unfortunate  Malvina,  would  be  enough  to  j^rovoke  their  enmity ; 
or  if  they  were  silent,  might  not  Lady  Euphrasia,  adorned  with 
every  advantage  of  rank  and  fortune,  have  won,  or  at  least  soon  win 
his  affections. 

Yet  scarcely  did  these  ideas  obtrude,  ere  she  reproached  herself  for 
them,  as  injurious  to  Lord  Mortimer,  from  whose  noble  nature  she 
thought  she  might  believe  his  constancy  never  would  be  rhaken, 
except  she  herself  gave  him  reason  to  relinquish  it. 

She  now  cheered  her  desponding  spirits,  by  recalling  the  ideas  she 
had  long  indulged  with  delight,  as  her  residence  was  still  a secret  to 
the  Edwins,  whose  letters  to  their  daughter  were,  by  Fitzalan’s  orders, 
constantly  directed  to  a distant  town,  from  whence  hers  in  return, 
were  sent;  she  concluded  chance  had  informed  Lord  Mortimer  of  it, 
and  flattered  herself,  that  to  avoid  the  suspicion  which  a solitary 
journey  to  Ireland  might  create  in  the  mind  of  Lord  Cherbury,  he 
had  availed  himself  of  the  marquis’s  party,  come  to  try  whether  she 
was  unchanged,  and  her  father  would  sanction  their  attachment  ere 
ho  avowed  it  to  the  earl. 

Whilst  fluctuating  between  hope  and  fear,  Ellen,  all  pale  and 
breathless,  ran  into  the  room,  exclaiming,  He  is  come ! he  is  come  I 
Lord  Mortimer  is  come.” 

‘‘Oh,  heavens!”  sighed  Amanda,  sinking  back  in  her  chair,  and 
dropping  her  trembling  hands  before  her.  Ellen,  alarmed,  blamed 
herself  for  her  precipitation,  and  flying  to  a cabinet,  snatched  a hot 
tie  of  lavender  water  from  it,  which  she  plentifully  sprinkled  over  her, 
and  then  assisted  her  to  a window.  “I  was  so  flurried,”  cried  the 
good-natured  girl,  as  she  saw  her  mistress  recovering.  “ I did  not 
know  what  I was  about ; heaven  knows,  the  sight  of  poor  Chip 
himself  could  not  have  given  me  more  pleasure ; I was  crossing  the 
ball  when  I saw  his  lordship  alighting,  and  to  be  sure,  if  one  of  the 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


178 


Oxd  warriors  liad  stopx)C(l  out  of  his  niche,  and  the  tefil  take  them  all^ 
I say,  for  tliey  grin  so  horribly,  they  affrighten  me  out  of  my  wits,  it 
I go  through  the  hall  of  a dark  evening ; so  if  one  of  them  old  fellows 
as  I was  saying,  had  jumped  out,  I could  not  have  been  more  star- 
tled ; and  back  I ran  into  the  little  parlour,  and  there  I heard  his 
lordship  inquiring  for  my  mastei ; to  be  sure  the  sound  of  his  voice 
did  my  heart  good,  for  he  is  an  old  friend,  as  one  may  say ; so  as 
soon  as  he  went  into  the  study,  I stole  up  stairs ; and  one  may  guess 
what  he  and  my  master  are  talking  about,  I think.” 

The  emotion  of  Amanda  increased : she  trembled  so  she  could  not 
stand : she  felt  as  if  her  destiny,  her  future  happiness,  depended  on 
this  minute.  In  vain  she  endeavoured  to  regain  composure ; her  spi- 
rits were  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  expectation,  and  the  agi- 
tations inseparable  from  such  a state,  were  not  to  be  represt. 

She  continued  near  an  hour  in  this  situation,  when  the  voice  of 
Mortimer  struck  her  ear ; she  started  up,  and  standing  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  saw  him  walking  down  the  lawn  with  her  father,  who 
left  him  when  he  had  reached  the  gate,  where  his  servants  and  horses 
were.  The  chill  of  disappointment  j^ervaded  the  heart  of  Amanda, 
and  a shower  of  tears  fell  from  her.  Ellen,  who  had  remained  in  the 
room,  was  almost  as  much  disappointed  as  her  mistress ; she  muttered 
something  about  the  inconstancy  of  men ; they  were  all,  for  her  part, 
she  believed,  all  alike ; all  like  Mr.  Chip,  captious  on  every  occasion. 
The  dinner  bell  now  summoned  Amanda;  she  dried  her  eyes,  and 
tied  @n  a little  straw  hat,  to  conceal  their  redness.  With  much  con- 
fusion, she  appeared  before  her  father;  his  penetrating  eye  was 
instantly  struck  with  her  agitation  and  pallid  looks,  and  he  conjec- 
tured that  she  knew  of  the  visit  he  had  received ; on  receiving  that 
visit,  he  wondered  not  at  the  strength  of  her  attachment ; the  noble 
and  ingenuous  air  of  Lord  Mortimer  had  immediately  prepossessed 
Fitzalan  in  his  favour ; he  saw  him  adorned  with  all  those  perfec- 
tions which  are  calculated  to  make  a strong  and  permanent  impression 
on  a heart  of  sensibility,  and  he  gave  a sigh  to  the  cruel  necessity 
which  compelled  him  to  separate  two  beings  of  such  congenial  loveli- 
ness ; but  as  that  necessity  neither  was  nor  could  be  overcome,  he 
rejoiced  that  Lord  Mortimer,  instead  of  visiting  him  on  account  of  his 
daughter,  had  merely  come  on  account  of  affairs  relating  to  the  castle, 
and  had  inquired  for  her  with  a coolness  which  seemed  to  declare  his 


174 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


iove  totally  subdued ; not  tlie  smallest  bint  relative  to  tbe  letter,  in 
which  he  had  proposed  for  her,  dropt  from  him ; and  Fitzalan  con- 
cluded his  affections  were  transferred  to  some  object,  more  the 
favourite  of  fortune  than  his  portionless  Amanda. 

This  object,  he  was  inclined  to  believe  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland, 
from  what  Lord  Cherbury  had  said,  concerning  the  splendid  alliance 
he  had  in  view  for  his  son,  and  from  Lord  Mortimer’s  accompanying 
the  Roslin  family  to  Ireland. 

He  felt  he  had  not  fortitude  to  mention  those  conjectures  to 
Amanda ; he  rather  wished  she  sliould  imbibe  them  from  her  own 
observation,  and  pride,  he  then  trusted,  would  come  to  her  aid,  and 
stimulate  her  to  overcome  her  attachment.  Dinner  passed  in  silence ; 
when  the  servant  was  withdrawn,  he  resolved  to  relieve  the  anxiety 
which  her  looks  informed  him  pressed  upon  her  heart,  by  mentioning 
the  visit  of  Lord  Mortimer ; he  came,  he  told  her,  merely  to  see  the 
state  the  castle  was  in,  and  thus  proceeded:  ‘‘Lord  Mortimer  is, 
indeed,  an  elegant  and  sensible  young  man,  and  will  do  honour  to 
the  house  from  whence  he  is  descended ; he  had  long  wished,  he  told 
me,  to  visit  the  estate  which  was  endeared  to  him  by  the  remem- 
brance of  his  juvenile  days ; but  particularly  by  its  being  the  place  of 
his  mother’s  nativity,  and  her  favourite  residence,  and  the  opportu- 
nity of  travelling  with  an  agreeable  party,  had  determined  him  no 
longer  to  defer  gratifying  this  wish. 

“He  mentioned  his  mother  in  terms  of  the  truest  respect  and  ten- 
derness, and  his  softened  voice,  his  tearful  eye,  proclaimed  his  heart 
the  mansion  of  sensibility : his  virtues,  like  his  praise,  will  do  honour 
to  her  memory.  He  had  been  told  the  castle  was  in  a very  ruinous 
state,  and  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  it  in  as  good  order  as  could 
be  expected  from  its  ancient  date.  He  desired  to  see  the  garden 
which  had  been  laid  out  under  the  direction  of  his  mother;  he 
expected  not  to  have  found  a vestige  of  her  taste  remaining,  and  was 
consequently  charmed  to  find  himself  mistaken  ; every  spot  appeared 
to  remind  him  of  some  happy  hour,  especially  the  Gothic  temple; 
how  many  happy  minutes  have  I passed  in  this  place,  said  his  lord- 
ship, after  a silence  for  some  time,  with  the  best  of  women. — Upon 
my  word,  Amanda,”  continued  Fitzalan,  “ you  have  ornamented  it  in 
a very  fanciful  manner;  I really  thought  his  lordship  would  have 
stolen  some  of  your  lilies  or  roses,  he  examined  them  so  accurately.’* 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


175 


— Amanda  blushed,  and  her  father  still  perceiving  expectation  in  hei 
eyes,  thus  went  on:  “His  lordsliip  looked  at  some  of  the  adjacent 
grounds,  and  as  he  has  mentioned  what  improvements  he  thought 
necessary  to  be  made  in  them,  I fancy  he  will  not  repeat  his  visit  or 
stay  much  longer  in  the  kingdom.” 

In  a few  minutes  after  this  conversation,  Fitzalan  repaired  to  his 
library,  and  Amanda  to  the  garden;  she  hastened  to  the  temple — • 
never  had  she  before  thought  it  so  picturesque,  or  such  an  addition  to 
the  landscape ; the  silence  of  Lord  Mortimer,  on  entering  it,  she  did 
not,  like  her  father,  believe  proceeded  altogether  * from  retracing 
scenes  of  former  happiness  with  his  mother : no,  said  she,  in  this  spot, 
he  also,  perhaps,  thought  of  Amanda. 

True  he  had  mentioned  her  with  indifference  to  her  father,  but  that 
might,  (and  she  would  flatter  herself  it  did,)  proceed  from  resentment, 
excited  by  her  precipated  flight  from  Wales,  at  a period  when  his 
received  addresses  gave  him  a right  to  information  about  all  her 
actions : and  by  her  total  neglect  of  him  since ; their  flrst  interview, 
she  trusted,  would  effect  a reconciliation,  by  producing  an  explana- 
tion ; her  father  then,  she  flattered  herself  tender  as  he  was,  depend- 
ing on  her  happiness,  and  prepossessed  in  Lord  Mortimer’s  favour, 
would  no  longer  oppose  their  attachment,  but  allow  Lord  Cherbury 
to  be  informed  of  it,  who,  she  doubted  not,  would  in  this,  as  well  as 
every  other  instance,  prove  himself  truly  feeling  and  disinterested. 

Thus  did  Amanda,  by  encouraging  ideas  agreeable  to  her  wishes, 
try  to  soften  the  disappointment  she  had  experienced  in  the  morning. 
Fitzalan  on  meeting  his  daughter  at  tea,  was  not  surprised  to  hear 
she  had  been  in  the  Gothic  temple,  but  he  was  to  see  her  wear  so 
cheerful  an  appearance ; he  was  no  stranger  to  the  human  heart,  and 
he  was  convinced  some  flattering  illusion  could  alone  have  enabled 
her  to  ^hake  off  the  sadness  with  which  but  an  hour  before,  she  had 
been  opprest ; the  sooner  such  an  illusion  was  removed,  the  better ; 
and  to  allow  her  to  see  Lord  Mortimer,  he  imagined  would  be  the 
most  effectual  measure  for  such  a purpose. 

The  more  he  reflected  on  that  young  nobleman’s  manner,  and  what 
he  himself  had  heard  from  Lord  Gherbury,  the  more  he  was  con- 
vinced Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  was  not  only  the  object  destined 
for  Lord  Mortimer,  but  the  one  who  now  possessed  his  afiections ; and 
he  believed  his  visit  to  Castle  Oarberry  had  been  made,  to  announce 


176 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


the  alteration  of  his  sentiments  by  the  coldness  of  his  conduct,  and 
check  any  hopes  which  his  appearance  in  the  neighbourhood  might 
have  created. 

He  had  hesitated  about  Amanda’s  accepting  the  invitation  to  the 
Kilcorhans’  hall,  hut  he  now  determined  she  should  go,  imprest  with 
the  idea  of  her  being  there  convinced  of  the  change  in  Lord  Mortimer’s 
sentiments,  a conviction  he  deemed  necessary  to  produce  one  in  her 
own. 

Amanda  impatiently  longed  for  this  night,  which  she  believed 
would  realize  either  her  hopes  or  fears. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A crimson  blush  her  beauteous  face  o’erspread, 

Varying  her  cheeks  by  turns  with  white  and  red ; 

The  driving  colours,  never  at  a stay, 

Run  here  and  there,  and  flush  and  fade  away ; 

Delightful  change ! thus  Indian  iv’ry  shows. 

Which  with  the  bord’ring  paint  of  purple  glows ; 

Or  lilies  damask’d  by  the  neighb’ring  rose. 

Dbtdbn. 

The  wished  for  night  at  length  arrived,  and  Amanda  arrayed  her 
self  for  it  with  a fluttering  heart ; the  reflection  of  her  mirror  did  not 
depress  her  spirits ; hope  had  increased  the  brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  and 
given  an  additional  glow  to  her  complexion.  Ellen,  who  delighted 
in  the  charms  of  her  dear  young  lady,  declared,  many  of  the  Irish 
ladies  would  have  reason  to  envy  her  that  night ; and  Fitzalan,  when 
he  entered  the  parlour,  was  struck  with  her  surpassing  loveliness ; 
he  gazed  on  her  with  a rapture  that  brought  tears  into  his  eyes,  and 
felt  a secret  pride  at  the  idea  of  the  marchioness  beholding  this  sweet 
descendant  of  her  neglected  sister’s 

Into  such  beauty  spread,  and  blown  so  fair, 

Tho’  poverty’s  cold  wind,  and  crushing  rain 
Beat  keen  and  heavy  on  her  tender  years. 


**  Ho,”  said  he  to  himself,  “ the  titled  Euphrasia,  if  she  equa.s,  can- 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

not  At  loast  surpass  my  Amanda ; meekness  and  innocence  dwell  upon 
the  brow  of  my  child — but  the  haughty  marchioness  will  teach  pride 
to  lower  upon  Lady  Euphrasia.” 

Amanda,  on  reaching  Grangeville,  found  the  avenue  full  of  car- 
riages ; the  lights  dispersed  through  the  house,  gave  it  quite  the  appear- 
ance of  an  illumination : it  seemed  indeed  the  mansion  of  gaiety  and 
splendour ; her  knees  trembled  as  she  ascended  the  stairs,  she  wished 
for  time  to  compose  herself,  but  the  door  opened,  her  name  was 
announced,  and  Mrs.  Kilcorban  came  forward  to  receive  her.  The 
room,  though  spacious,  was  extremely  crowded ; it  was  decorated  in 
a fanciful  manner  with  festoons  of  flowers  intermingled  with  variega- 
ted lamps ; immediately  over  the  entrance  was  the  orchestra,  and 
opposite  to  it  sat  the  marchioness  and  her  party.  The  heart  of 
Amanda  beat  if  possible  with  increased  quickness,  on  the  approach  of 
Mrs.  Kilcorban,  and  her  voice  was  lost  in  her  emotions;  recollecting, 
however,  the  scrutinizing  eyes  of  Lord  Mortimer  and  her  imperious 
relations  were  now  on  her,  she  almost  immediately  recovered  compo- 
sure, and  with  her  usual  elegance,  walked  up  the  room.  Most  of  tlie 
company  were  strangers  to  her,  and  she  heard  a general  buzz  of 

Who  is  she  ?”  accompanied  with  expressions  of  admiration  from  the 
gentlemen,  among  whom  were  the  officers  of  a garrison  town  near 
Grangeville.  Confused  by  the  notice  she  attracted,  she  hastened  to 
the  first  seat  she  found  vacant,  which  was  near  the  marchioness. 

Universal,  indeed,  was  the  admiration  she  had  excited  among  the 
male  part  of  the  company,  by  her  beauty,  unaffected  graces,  and 
simplicity  of  dress. 

She  wore  a robe  of  pale  white  lutestring,  and  a crape  turban,  orna- 
mented with  a plume  of  drooping  feathers : she  had  no  appearance 
of  finery,  except  a chain  of  pearls  about  her  bosom,  from  which 
hung  her  mother’s  picture,  and  a light  wreath  of  embroidered  laurel, 
intermingled  with  silver  blossoms  round  her  petticoat.  Her  hair  in 
its  own  native  and  glossy  hue,  floated  on  her  shoulders,  and  partly 
shaded  a cheek,  where  the  purity  of  the  lily  was  tinted  with  the 
softest  bloom  of  the  rose:  on  gaining  a seat  her  confusion  subsided: 
she  looked  up,  and  the  first  eyes  she  met  were  those  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer (who  leaned  on  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland’s  chair)  fastened  on 
her  face  with  a scrutinizing  earnestness,  as  if  he  wished  to  penetrate 
the  recesses  of  her  heart,  and  discover  whether  he  yet  retained  a 

8^  . 


178 


CniLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


place  in  it ; she  blushed,  and  looking  from  him,  perceived  she  was  an 
object  of  critical  attention  to  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia; 
there  was  a malignant  expression  in  their  countenances  which  abso- 
lutely shocked  her;  and  she  felt  a sensation  of  horror  at  beholding 
the  former,  who  had  so  largely  contributed  to  the  sorrows  of  her 
mother.  “ Can  it  be  possible,”  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  replying  to  a 
young  and  elegant  officer  who  stood  by  her,  in  a tone  of  affectation, 
and  with  an  impertinent  sneer,  “that  you  think  her  handsome?” 
“Handsome!”  exclaimed  he  with  warmth,  as  if  involuntarily  repeat- 
ing her  ladyship’s  words,  “ I think  her  bewitchingly  irresistible ; they 
told  me  I was  coming  to  a land  of  saints  ;”  but  glancing  his  sparkling 
eyes  around,  and  fixing  them  on  Amanda,  “ 1 find  that  it  is  the  land 
of  goddesses.” 

The  marchioness  haughtily  frowned — Lady  Euphrasia  smiled  sati- 
rically, tossed  her  head  and  played  with  her  fan : the  propensities  to 
envy  and  ill-nature,  wliich  the  marchioness  had  shown  in  her  youth, 
were  not  less  visible  in  age : as  they  were  then  excited  on  her  own 
account,  so  were  they  now  on  her  daughter’s,  to  engross  praise  and 
admiration  for  her,  she  wished  beauty  blasted,  and  merit  extirpated ; 
nor  did  she  ever  fail,  when  in  her  power,  to  depreciate  one,  and  cast 
an  invidious  cloud  of  calumny  over  the  other.  She  beheld  Amanda 
with  envy  and  hatred ; notwithstanding  her  partiality  to  her  daughter, 
she  could  not  avoid  seeing  her  vast  inferiority  in  point  of  personal 
charms,  to  her  young  relation.  True,  Lady  Euphrasia  possessed  a 
fortune,  which  could  always  ensure  her  attention,  but  it  was  that 
Unimpassioned  and  studied  attention  selfishness  dictates,  the  mere 
tribute  of  flattery.  How  different  from  the  spontaneous  attention 
which  Amanda  excited,  who  though  portionless  and  untitled  was 
beheld  with  admiration,  followed  with  praise  and  courted  with 
assiduity. 

Lady  Euphrasia’s  mind  was  the  counterpart  of  her  mother’s; 
but  in  her  figure  she  resembled  her  father ; her  stature  was  low,  and 
her  features  contracted,  and  though  of  the  same  age  as  Amanda,  her 
harsh  expression  made  her  appear  much  older;  though  blessed  with 
the  abundant  gifts  of  fortune,  she  was  unhappy,  if,  from  any  one’s 
manner,  she  conceived  that  they  thought  nature  had  not  been  quite 
60  liberal  to  her.  In  the  domestic  circle,  constant  flattery  kept  her 
in  good  humour : but  wlien  out,  she  w^as  frequently  chagrined  at  seeing 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


179 


women  infinitely  below  hhc  in  rank  and  fortune,  more  noticed  than 
herself. 

At  the  ball  she  supposed  slie  should  have  appeared  as  little  less,  at 
least  than  a demi-goddess ; art  and  fashion  were  exhausted  in  adorn- 
ing her,  and  she  entered  the  room  with  all  the  insolence  of  conscious 
rank  and  aflfectation  of  beauty.  As  she  walked  she  appeared  scarcely 
able  to  support  her  delicate  frame,  and  her  languishing  eyes  were 
half-closed.  She  could,  however,  see  there  was  a number  of  pretty 
women  present,  and  felt  disconcerted;  the  respect,  however,  which 
she  was  paid,  a little  revived  her ; and  having  contrived  to  detain 
Lord  Mortimer  by  her  chair,  and  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  the  young 
officer  already  mentioned,  who  was  a colonel  of  a regiment  quartered 
in  an  adjacent  town,  she  soon  felt  her  spirits  uncommonly  exhilarated, 
by  the  attentions  of  two  of  the  most  elegant  men  in  the  room : and 
like  a proud  sultana,  in  the  midst  of  her  slaves,  was  enjoying  the 
compliments  she  extorted  from  them  by  her  prefatory  speeches,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  Amanda,  like  an  angel  of  light,  appeared,  to 
dissolve  the  mists  of  vanity  and  self-importance.  Lord  Mortimer  Vv^as 
silent,  but  his  speaking  eyes  confessed  his  feelings.  Sir  Charles 
Bingley,  who  had  no  secret  motive  for  concealing  his,  openly  avowed 
his  admiration,  to  which  Lady  Euphrasia  replied,  as  has  been  already 
D.entioned. 

All  the  rapture  Sir  Charles  expressed.  Lord  Mortimer  felt ; his  soul 
seemed  on  the  wing  to  fly  to  An^nda,  to  utter  its  feelings,  to  discover 
hers,  and  chide  her  for  her  conduct.  This  first  emotion  oi  tenderness, 
1‘owever,  quickly  subsided,  on  recollecting  what  that  conduct  had 
been — ^how  cruelly,  how  ungratefully  she  had  used  him, — fled  in  the 
yery  moment  of  hope  and  expectation,  leaving  him  a prey  to  distrust, 
anxiety  and  regret : he  dreaded  some  fatal  mystery,  some  improper 
attachment,  (experience  had  rendered  him  suspicious)  which  neither 
she  nor  her  father  could  avow : for  never  did  he  imagine  that  tlnj 
scr’ipulous  delicacy  of  Fitzalan  alone  had  effected  their  separation; 
he  still  adored  Amanda : he  neither  could  or  desired  to  drive  her  from 
his  thoughts,  except  well  assured  she  was  unworthy  of  being  harbour- 
ed in  them,  and  felt  unutterable  impatience  to  have  her  mysterious 
conduct  explained. — From  Tudor  Hall  he  had  repaired  to  London, 
Yestless  and  unhappy;  soon  after  his  arrival  there,  the  marquis 
proposed  his  accompanying  him  to  Ireland ; this  he  declined,  having 


180 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


reason  to  think  Lord  Cherbury  meditated  an  alliance  for  him  with 
his  famil}.  The  earl  expressed  regret  at  his  refusal;  he  said  he 
wished  he  would  join  the  marqiis’s  party,  as  he  wanted  his  opinion 
'•elatiye  to  the  state  of  Castle  Carberry,  where  a man  of  integrity  then 
resided : who  would  make  any  alterations  or  repairs  he  might  think 
necessary,  executed  in  the  most  elegant  manner.  He  mentioned  the 
name  of  Fitzalan;  tord  Mortimer  was  surprised  and  agitated;  he 
concealed  his  emotions,  however,  and  with  apparent  carelessness, 
asked  a few  questions  about  him,  and  found  that  he  was  indeed  the 
father  of  Amanda;  she  was  not  mentioned,  nor  did  he  dare  to  inquire 
concerning  her;  but  he  immediately  declared,  that  since  his  father 
wished  it  so  much,  he  would  accompany  the  marquis.  This  was 
extremely  pleasing  to  that  nobleman,  as  he  and  Lord  Cherbury  had, 
in  reality,  agreed  upon  a union  between  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia, 
and  meant,  soon,  openly  to  avow  their  intention.  Lord  Mortimer 
suspected,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  was  already  apprised  of  it,  and  from 
vanity  was  pleased  at  the  idea  of  being  connected  with  a man  so 
universally  admired : love  was  out  of  the  question,  for  she  had  not 
sufficient  sensibility  to  experience  it. 

He,  cautious  of  creating  hopes,  which  he  never  meant  to  realize, 
treated  her  only  with  the  attention  which  common  politeness 
demanded,  and  on  every  occasion  seemed  to  prefer  the  marchioness’s 
conversation  to  hers,  intending,  by  this  conduct,  to  crush  the 
projected  scheme,  in  embryo,  and  sj^re  himself  the  mortification  of 
only  rejecting  it ; had  his  heart  even  been  disengaged.  Lady  Euphra- 
sia could  never  have  been  his  choice : if  Amanda  in  reality  proved  as 
amiable  as  he  had  once  reason  to  believe  her,  he  considered  himself 
bound,  by  every  tie  of  honour,  as  well  as  love  to  fulfil  the  engagement 
he  had  entered  into  with  her.  He  resolved,  however,  to  resist  every 
plea  of  tenderness  in  her  favour,  except  he  was  thoroughly  convinced 
she  still  deserved  it : he  went  to  Castle  Carberry,  purposely  to  make 
a display  of  indifference,  and  prevent  any  ideas  being  entertained  of 
his  having  followed  her  to  Ireland ; he  deemed  himself  justifiable  in 
touching  her  sensibility  (if  indeed  she  possessed  any  for  him),  by  an 
appearance  of  coldness  and  inattention ; but  determined  after  a littU 
retaliation  of  this  kind  on  her  for  the  pain  she  had  made  him  endure, 
to  come  to  an  explanation,  and  be  guided  by  its  results,  relative  to  Ids 
conduct  in  future  to  her. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


181 


Tlie  character  of  a perfect  stranger,  was  the  one  he  was  to  support 
throughout  the  evening ; but  her  loveliness  and  the  gallantry  of  Sir 
Charles  Bingley,  tempted  him  a thousand  times  to  break  through  the 
restraint  he  had  imposed  on  himself. 

The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  were  not  the  only  personal 
displeased  by  the  charms  of  Amanda ; the  Miss  Kilcorbans  saw,  with 
evident  mortification,  the  admiration  she  excited,  which  they  had 
flattered  themselves  vfith  chiefly  engrossing;  their  disappointment 
was  doubly  severe,  after  the  pain,  trouble,  and  expense  they  had 
undergone,  in  ornamenting  their  persons : — after  the  suggestions  of 
their  vanity,  and  the  flattering  encomiums  of  their  mamma,  who 
presided  herself  at  their  toilet,  every  moment  exclaiming,  “Well, 
well,  heaven  help  the  men  to-night,  girls.” 

They  fluttered  across  the  room  to  Amanda,  sweeping  at  least  tw^o 
yards  of  painted  tifiany  after  them ; assured  her  they  were  extremely 
glad  to  see  her,  but  were  afraid  she  was  unwell,  as  she  never  looked 
BO  ill.  Amanda  assured  them  she  was  conscious  of  no  indisposition, 
and  the  harmony  of  her  features  remained  undisturbed.  Miss 
Kilcorban,  in  a half-whisper,  declared  the  marchioness  had  never 
smiled  since  she  had  entered  the  room,  and  feared  her  mamma  had 
committed  a great  mistake  in  inviting  them  togetlier.  The  rudeness 
of  this  speech  shocked  Amanda;  an  indignant  swell  heaved  her 
bosom,  and  she  was  about  replying  to  it  as  it  deserved,  w^hen  Miss 
Alicia  stopped  her,  by  protesting,  she  believed  Lord  Mortimer  dying 
for  Lady  Euphrasia.  Amanda  involuntarily  raised  her  eyes  at  this 
speech,  but  instead  of  Lord  Mortimer,  beheld 'Sir  Charles  Bingley, 
who  was  standing  behind  the  young  ladies.  “Am  I pardonable,” 
cried  he,  smiling,  “for  disturbing  so  charming  a trio;  but  a soldier 
is  taught  never  to  neglect  a good  opportunity,  and  one  so  propitious 
as  the  present  for  the  wish  of  my  heart,  might  not  again  offer.”  The 
Miss  Kilcorbans  bridled  up  at  this  speech;  played  their  fans,  and 
smiled  most  graciously  on  him,  certainly  concluding  he  meant  to 
engage  one  or  the  other  for  the  first  set;  passing  gently  between 
them,  he  bowed  gracefully  to  Amanda,  and  requested  the  honour  of 
her  hand ; she  gave  an  assenting  smile,  and  he  seated  himself  besido 
her,  till  the  dancing  commenced ; the  sisters  cast  a malignant  glance 
over  them,  and  swam  off  with  a contemptuous  indifference. 

liady  Euphrasia  had  expected  Sir  Charles  and  Lord  Mortimer 


182 


CHILD EEN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


would  hnve  been  competitors  for  her  hand,  and  was  infinitely  pro- 
voked by  the  desertion  of  the  former  to  her  lovely  cousin ; he  was  a 
fashionable  and  animated  young  man,  whom  she  had  often  honoured 
with  her  notice  in  England,  and  wished  to  enlist  in  the  train  of  her 
supposed  adorers.  Lord  Mortimer  could  scarcely  restore  her  good 
humour  by  engaging  her.  Almost  immediately  after  him  young 
Kilcorban  advanced,  for  the  same  purpose,  and  Lord  Mortimer 
sincerely  regretted  he  had  been  beforehand  with  him.  The  little  fop 
was  quite  chagrined  at  finding  her  ladyship  engaged,  but  entreated 
the  next  set  he  mi^t  have  the  supreme  honour,  and  extatic  felicity, 
of  her  hand;  this,  with  the  most  impertinent  affectation,  she  pro- 
mised, if  able  to  endure  the  fatigue  of  another  dance. 

Amanda  was  next  couple  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  endeavoured, 
therefore,  to  calm  her  spirits,  which  the  rudeness  of  Miss  Kilcorban 
had  discomposed;  she  attended  to  the  lively  conversation  of  Sir 
Charles,  who  was  extremely  pleasing  and  entertaining.  Lord  Mor- 
timer watched  them  with  jealous  attention ; his  wandering  glances 
were  soon  noticed  by  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  her  frowns  and  sarcastic 
speeches  evinced  her  displeasure  at  them.  He  tried  to  recollect 
himself,  and  act  as  politeness  required ; she,  not  satisfied  with  fixing 
his  attention,  endeavoured  to  attract  Sir  Charles’s ; she  spoke  to  him 
across  Amanda,  but  all  her  efforts  were  here  ineffectual ; he  spoke 
and  laughed  with  her  ladyship,  but  his  eyes  could  not  be  with- 
drawn from  the  angelic  countenance  of  his  partner.  Amanda’s  hand 
trembled,  as,  in  turning,  she  presented  it  to  Lord  Mortimer;  but 
though  he  extended  his,  he  did  not  touch  it ; there  was  a slight  in 
this  which  pierced  Amanda’s  heart ; she  sighed,  unconscious  of  doing 
BO  to  herself ; not  so  Sir  Charles ; he  asked  her,  smiling,  to  where,  or 
whom  that  sigh  was  wafted.  This  made  Amanda  recall  her  wander- 
ing thoughts ; she  assumed  an  air  of  sprightliness,  and  went  down 
the  dance  with  much  animation.  When  finished.  Sir  Charles  led  her 
to  a seat  near  the  one  Lady  Euphrasia  and  Lord  Mortimer  occupied  : 
she  saw  the  eyes  of  his  lordship  often  directed  towards  her,  and  her 
heart  fluttered  at  the  pleasing  probability  of  being  asked  to  dance  by 
him.  Sir  Charles  regretted  that  the  old-fashioned  custom  of  not 
changing  partners  was  over,  and  declared  he  could  not  leave  her,  till 
Bhe  had  promised  him  her  hand  for  the  third  set ; this  she  could  not 
refuse,  and  he  left  her  with  reluctance  (as  the  gentlemen  were  again 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


183 


Btanding  up),  to  seek  a partner.  At  the  same  moment  Lord  Morfimer 
quitted  Lady  Euphrasia ; oh  I how  the  bosom  of  Amanda  throbbed, 
when  she  saw  him  approach  and  look  at  her ; he  paused — a faintness 
came  over  her — he  cast  another  glance  on  her,  and  passed  on hel 
eye  followed  him,  and  she  saw  him  take  out  Miss  Kilcorban. 

This,  indeed,  was  a disapointment ; propriety,  she  thought^ 
demanded  his  dancing  the  first  set  with  Lady  Euphrasia : but  if  not 
totally  indifferent,  surely  he  would  not  have  neglected  engaging  her 
for  the  second ; “Yes,”  said  she  to  herself,  “ he  has  totally  forgotten 
me : Lady  Euphrasia  is  now  the  object,  and  he  only  pays  attention  to 
those  who  can  contribute  to  her  amusement.”  Several  gentlemen 
endeavoured  to  prevail  on  her  to  dance,  but  she  pleaded  fatigue,  and 
sat  solitary  in  a window,  apparently  regarding  the  gay  assembly,  but 
in  reality,  too  much  engrossed  by  painful  thoughts  to  do  so.  The 
woods,  silvered  b}’-  the  beams  of  the  moon,  recalled  the  venerable 
shades  of  Tudor  Hall  to  memory,  where  she  had  so  often  rambled  by 
the  same  pale  beams,  and  heard  vows  of  unchangeable  regard — vows 
registered  in  her  heart,  yet  now  without  the  hope  of  having  them 
fulfilled.  The  dancing  over,  the  company  repaired  to  another  room 
for  refreshments.  Amanda,  absorbed  in  thought,  heeded  not  their 
almost  total  desertion,  till  young  Kilcorban,  capering  up  to  her, 
declared  she  looked  as  lonesome  as  a hermit  in  his  cell,  and  laughing 
in  her  face,  turned  off  with  careless  impertinence;  he  had  not 
noticed  her  before  that  night;  he  was  indeed  one  of  those  little 
fluttering  insects,  who  bask  in  the  rays  of  fortune,  and  court  alone 
her  favourites ; elated  by  an  acquaintance  wHh  the  marchioness  and 
Lady  Euphrasia,  he  particularly  neglected  Amanda,  not  only  for 
deeming  them  more  worthy  of  his  attention,  but  from  perceiving  he 
could  take  no  step  more  certain  of  gaining  their  favour.  His  words 
made  Amanda  sensible  of  the  singularity  of  her  situation;  she  arose 
immediately,  and  went  to  the  other  room.  Every  seat  was  already 
occupied;  near  the  door  sat  Lady  Euphrasia  and  the  Miss  Kilcor- 
bans ; Lord  Mortimer  leaned  on  the  back  of  her  ladyship’s  chair,  and 
young  Kilcorban  occupied  one  by  her  side,  which  he  never  attempted 
offering  to  Amanda;  she  stood,  therefore,  most  unpleasantly  by  the 
door,  and  was  exceedingly  confused  at  hearing  a great  many,  in  a 
whispering  way,  remarking  the  strangeness  of  her  not  being  noticed 
by  SiO  near  a relation  as  the  marchioness  of  Kosline.  A general  tittCi^ 


IM  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

at  lier  sii.aation  prevailed  among  Lady  Euphrasia’s  party,  Lord  Mcr* 
timer  excepted.  “ Upon  my  -word,”  said  young  Kilcorban,  looking 
at  Amanda,  ‘‘  some  ladies  study  attitudes,  which  would  be  as  well  let 
alone.” — “For  the  study  of  propriety,”  replied  her  ladyship,  who 
appeared  to  have  unbended  from  her  haughtiness,  “she  would  do 
admirably  for  the  figure  of  Hope.”  “ If  she  had  but  one  anchor  to 
recline  on,”  rejoined  he.  “Yes,”  answered  her  ladyship,  “with  her 
floating  locks  and  die-away  glances.”  “ Or  else  Patience  on  a monu- 
ment,” cried  he ; “ Only  she  has  no  grief  here  to  smile  at,”  returned 
Lady  Euphrasia.  “ Pardon  me  there,”  said  he,  “ she  has  the  grief, 
not  indeed  that  I believe  she  would  smile  at  it,  of  being  totally 
eclipsed  by  your  ladyship.” 

“ Or  what  do  you  think,”  criel  Lord  Mortimer,  whose  eyee  sparkled 
with  indignation  during  this  dialogue,  “ of  likening  her  tc  Wisdom, 
pitying  the  follies  of  human-kind,  and  smiling  to  see  the  shafts  of 
malice  recoiling  from  the  bosom  of  innocence  and  modesty  with  con- 
tempt on  those  who  levelled  them  at  it.” 

Amanda  heard  not  these  words,  which  were  delivered  in  rather  a 
low  voice ; her  heart  swelled  with  indignation  at  the  impertinence 
directed  to  her,  and  she  would  have  quitted  the  room,  but  that  the 
passage  was  too  much  crowded  for  her  to  pass.  Sir  Charles  Bingley, 
occupied  in  attending  the  ^mung  lady  with  whom  he  had  danced, 
observed  not  Amanda  till  this  moment:  he  instantly  flew  to  her; 
“Alone  and  standing  ?”  said  he,  “ why  did  not  I see  you  before? — ^yoii 
look  fatigued.”  She  was  pale  with  emotion. — “Kilcorban,”  con- 
tinued he,  “I  must  suppose  you  did  not  see  Miss  Fitzalan,  or  your 
seat  would  not  have  been  kept:”  then  catching  him  by  the  arm,  he 
raised  him  nimbly  from  his  chair,  and  directly  carried  it  to  Amanda ; 
and  having  procured  her  refreshments,  seated  himself  at  her  feet, 
exclaiming,  “this  is  my  throne,  let  kings  come  bow  to  it.”  Her 
lovely  unatfected  graces  had  excited  Sir  Charles’s  admiration : but  it 
was  the  neglect  with  which  he  saw  her  treated,  diffused  such  a sooth- 
ing tenderness  through  his  manner  as  he  now  displayed ; it  hurt  his 
sensibility,  and  had  she  even  been  plain  in  her  appearance,  would 
have  rendered  her  a peculiar  object  of  his  attention ; he  detested  the 
marchioness  and  her  daughter  for  their  rancorous  envy,  as  much  as  ho 
despised  the  Kilcorbans  for  their  mean  insolence.  The  marchioness 
told  him  a loug  tale  of  the  shocking  conduct  of  Amanda’s  parentei 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


185 


whose  ill  qualities  she  declared  her  looks  announced  her  to  possess, 
and  endeavoured  to  depreciate  her  in  his  favour,  hut  that  was 
impossible. 

“Lord  !”  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  rising  as  she  spoke,  “let  me  pass, 
this  scene  is  sickening.”  Lord  Mortimer  remained  behind  her:  ho 
loitered  about  the  room  and  his  looks  were  often  directed  towai*d3 
Amanda : her  hopes  began  to  revive : the  lustre  rekindled  in  her  eyes, 
and  a soft  blush  again  stole  over  her  cheek : though  engaged  to  Sir 
Charles,  she  felt  she  could  be  pleased  to  have  Lord  Mortimer  make  an 
overture  for  her  hand.  The  company  were  now  returning  to  the 
ball-room,  and  Sir  Charles  took  her  hand  to  lead  her  after  them.  At 
this  moment  Lord  Mortimer  approached ; — ^Amanda  paused,  as  if  to  . 
adjust  some  part  of  her  dress : he  passed  on  to  a very  beautiful  girl, 
whom  he  immediately  engaged  and  led  her  from  the  room ; she  followed 
them  with  her  eyes,  and  continued  without  moving,  till  the  feiwent 
pressure  Sir  Charles  gave  her  hand  restored  her  to  recollection. 

When  the  set  with  him  was  finished,  she  would  have  left  the  house 
directly,  had  her  servant  been  there : but  after  putting  up  the  horses, 
he  had  returned  to  Castle  Carberry,  and  she  did  not  expect  him  till  a 
very  late  hour.  She  declared  her  resolution  of  dancing  no  more,  and 
Sir  Charles  having  avowed  the  same,  they  repaired  to  the  card  room, 
as  the  least  crowded  room  they  could  find.  Lady  Greystock  was 
playing  at  the  table,  with  the  marquis  and  marchioness;  she 
beckoned  Amanda  to  her,  and  having  had  no  opportunity  of  speaking 
before,  expressed  her  pleasure  at  then  seeing  her.  The  marquis 
examined  her  through  his  spectacles — the  marchioness  frowned,  and 
declared,  “ She  would  take  care  in  future,  to  avoid  parties,  subject  to 
such  disagreeable  intruders.”  This  speech  was  too  pointed  not  to  be 
remarked : Amanda  wished  to  appear  undisturbed,  but  her  emotions 
grew  too  powerful  to  be  suppressed,  and  she  was  obliged  to  move 
hastily  from  the  table.  Sir  Charles  followed  her ; “ Cursed  malig- 
nity,” cried  he,  endeavouring  to  screen  her  from  observation,  while 
tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks ; “ but,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  was 
your  beauty  and  merit  less  conspicuous,  you  would  have  escaped  if; 
’tis  the  vice  of  little  minds  to  hate  that  excellence  they  cannot  reach.”  \ 
“ It  is  cruel,  it  is  shocking,”  said  Amanda,  “ to  suffer  enmity  to  out- 
live the  object  who  excited  it,  and  to  hate  the  offspring  on  account 
of  the  parent;  the  original  of  this  picture,”  and  she  looked  at  her 


186 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


mothei^s^  “merited  not  sncli  conduct.”  Sir  Charles  gazed  on  it;  it 
was  wet  with  the  tears  of  Amanda ; he  wiped  them  off,  and  pressing 
the  handkerchief  to  his  lips,  put  it  in  his  bosom. 

At  this  instant  Lord  Mortimer  appeared ; he  had,  indeed,  btcn  for 
some  time  an  unnoticed  observer  of  the  progress  of  this  t^te-^-t^te. 
As  soon  as  he  perceived  he  had  attracted  their  regard  he  quitted  the 
room. 

“ His  lordship  is  like  a troubled  spirit  to  night,  wandering  to  and 
fro,”  said  Sir  Charles,  “I  really  believe  everything  is  not  right 
between  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia.”  “ Something  then,”  cried 
Amanda,  “ is  in  agitation  between  him  and  her  ladyship.”  “ So  says 
the  world,”  replied  Sir  Charles,  “ but  I do  not  always  give  implicit 
credit  to  its  reports : I have  known  Lord  Mortimer  this  long  time, 
and  from  my  knowledge  of  him,  should  never  have  supposed  Lady 
Euphrasia  Sutherland  a woman  capable  of  pleasing  him  : nay,  to  give 
my  real  opinion,  I think  him  quite  uninterested  about  her  ladyship  ; I 
will  not  say  so  much  as  to  all  other  females  present;  I really 
imagined  several  times  to-night  from  his  glances  to  you,  he  was  on 
the  point  of  requesting  an  introduction,  which  would  not  have 
pleased  me  perfectly.  Mortimer  possesses  more  graces  than  those 
which  merely  meet  the  eye,  and  is  a rival  I should  by  no  means  like 
to  have.” 

Amanda,  confused  by  this  discourse,  endeavoured  to  change  it,  and 
at  last  succeeded;  they  conversed  pleasantly  together  on  different 
subjects,  till  they  went  to  supper,  where  Sir  Charles  still  continued 
his  attention.  Lord  Mortimer  was,  or  at  least  appeared  to  be,  entirely 
engrossed  with  Lady  Euphrasia,  who  from  time  to  time  tittered  with 
the  Miss  Kilcorbans,  and  looked  satirically  at  Amanda.  On  quitting 
the  supper-room,  she  found  her  servant  in  the  hall,  and  immediately 
desired  him  to  have  the  carriag®^  drawn  up.  Sir  Charles,  who  held 
her  hand,  requested  her  to  stay  i little  longer,  yet  acknowledged  it 
was  self  alone  which  dictated  f e request,  as  he  knew  she  would  not 
promote  her  own  pleasure  by  complying  with  it.  As  he  handed  her 
into  the  carriage,  he  told  her  he  should  soon  follow  her  example  in 
retiring,  as  the  scene,  so  lately  delightful,  in  losing  her,  would  lose  all 
its  charms  ; he  entreated  and  obtained  permission  to  wait  on  her  the 
next  morning. 

How  different  was  r v the  appearance  of  Amanda,  to  what  it  bad 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ^BBET. 


197 


been  at  her  departure  from  Castle  Carberry;  pale,  trembling,  and 
languid,  her  father  received  her  into  his  arms ; for  till  she  returned, 
he  could  not  think  of  going  to  rest,  and  instantly  guessed  the  cause 
of  her  dejection.  Ilis  heart  mourned  for  the  pangs  inflicted  on  his 
child’s.  When  she  beheld  him  gazing  on  her  with  mingled  woe  and 
tenderness,  she  tried  to  recruit  her  spirits,  and  relating  a few  particu- 
lars of  the  ball,  answered  the  minute  inquiries  he  made  relative  to  the 
conduct  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.  He  appeared 
unutterably  aflfected  on  hearing  it;  “Merciful  power,”  exclaimed  he, 
“ what  dispositions : but  you  are  too  lovely — too  like  your  mother, 
my  Amanda,  in  every  perfection,  to  escape  their  malice — oh ! may  it 
never  injure  you,  as  it  did  her;  may  that  Providence,  whose  protec- 
tion I daily  implore  for  the  sweet  child  of  my  love,  the  source  of 
earthly  comfort,  render  every  scheme  which  may  be  formed  against 
her  abortive ; and  oh ! may  it  yet  bless  me  with  the  sight  of  her 
happiness.” 

Amanda  retired  to  her  chamber  inexpressibly  atfected  by  the  lan- 
guage of  her  father:  “Yes,”  cried  she,  her  heart  swelling  with  pity 
and  gratitude  to  him,  “my  sorrow  in  future  shall  be  concealed,  to 
avoid  exciting  his : — the  pain  inflicted  by  thy  inconstancy,  Mortimer, 
shall  be  hid  within  the  recesses  of  my  heart,  and  never  shall  the 
peace  of  my  father  be  disturbed,  by  knowing  the  loss  of  mine.” 

The  grey  dawn  was  now  beginning  to  advance,  but  Amanda  had 
no  inclination  for  repose : as  she  stood  at  the  window,  she  heard  the 
solemn  stillness  of  the  scene  frequently  interrupted  by  the  distant 
noise  of  carriages,  caiTying  home  the  weary  sons  and  daughters  of 
dissipation.  “ But  a few  hours  ago,”  said  she,  and  how  gay,  how 
animated  was  my  soul : how  dull,  how  cheerless  now : — Oh,  Morti- 
mer, but  a few  hours  ago,  and  I believed  myself  the  beloved  of  thine 
heart : but  the  flattering  illusion  is  now  over,  and  I no  longer  shall 
hope,  or  thou  deceive:”  she  changed  her  clothes,  and  flinging  herself 
on  the  bed,  from  mere  fatigue  sunk  into  a slumber. 


188 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


CHAPTER  XXr. 

Love  reigns  a very  tyrant  in  my  heart, 

Attended  on  his  throne  by  all  his  guard 
Of  furious  wishes,  fears  and  nice  suspicions. 

Otwat. 

The  next  morning  brouglit  Sir  Charles  Bingley  to  Castle  Car  berry , 
Fitzalan  was  ont,  but  Amanda  received  him  in  her  dressing-room, 
lie  told  her  with  evident  concern,  he  was  on  the  point  of  setting  off 
for  the  metropolis,  to  embark  from  thence  immediately  for  England, 
having  received  letters  that  morning,  which  recalled  him  there ; he 
regretted  that  their  intimacy,  or  rather  friendship,  as  with  insinu- 
ating softness  he  entreated  permission  to  call  it,  was  interrupted  at 
its  ve^y  commencement ; declared  it  gave  him  more  pain  than  she 
could  imagine,  or  he  express ; and  that  his  return  to  Ireland  would 
be  expedited  for  the  purpose  of  renewing  it ; and  requested  he  might 
be  flattered  with  an  assurance  of  not  being  totally  forgotten  during 
his  absence.  Amanda  answered  him  as  if  she  supposed  mere  polite- 
ness had  dictated  the  request : ‘‘  her  father,”  she  said,  “ she  was  sure 
would  be  happy  to  see  him  if  he  returned  again  to  their  neighbour- 
hood.” At  his  entrance,  he  said  he  could  stay  but  a few  minutes, 
yet  he  remained  about  two  hours,  and  when  he  arose  to  depart, 
declared  he  had  reason  to  think  the  castle  an  enchanting  one,  he 
found  it  so  difiicult’to  get  from  it ; “yet,  unlike  the  knights  of  old,” 
continued  he,  “I  wish  not  to  break  the  spell  which  detained  me 
in  it.” 

Day  after  day  elapsed,  and  no  Lord  Mortimer  appeared.  Amanda, 
indeed,  heard  frequently  of  him,  and  always  as  the  admirer  of  Lady 
Euphrasia;  frequently,  too,  she  heard  about  the  family  at  Ulster 
Lodge;  their  superb  entertainments,  and  those  given  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood to  them.  The  Kilcorbans  seemed  to  have  given  her  up 
entirely ; Lady  Greystock  was  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  con- 
tinued to  pay  her  any  attention ; she  called  once  or  twice  at  Castle 
Carberry,  to  see  whether  her  apron  was  flnished,  and  tell  all  the 
news  she  had  picked  up  to  Amanda.  The  resolution  which  Amanda 
had  formed,  of  concealing  her  melancholy  from  her  father,  she  sup 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


189 


ported  tolerably  well,  but  she  only  indulged  it  more  freely  in  soli- 
tude; tbe  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  union  with  Lady  Euphrasia, 
haunted  her  imagination,  and  embittered  every  moment.  ‘‘Yes,” 
she  would  exclaim  (as  she  wandered  through  the  garden  which  had 
been  converted  from  a rude  wilderness  into  a scene  of  beauty,  by  her 
superintending  care),  “ I have  planted  flowers,  but  another  shall  enjoy 
tlieir  sweets ; I have  planted  roses  for  Mortimer  to  strew  in  the  path 
of  Lady  Euphrasia;  I have  adorned  the  landscape,  and  she  shall 
enjoy  its  beauty.” 

About  three  weeks  after  the  ball,  as  she  sat  at  work  one  morning 
in  the  dressing-room,  beguiling  her  thoughts  with  a little  plaintive 
song,  she  heard  the  door  softly  open  behind  her;  she. supposed  it  to 
be  Ellen ; but  not  flnding  any  one  advance,  turned  round,  and  per- 
ceived, not  Ellen,  indeed,  but  Lord  Mortimer  himself:  starting  from 
her  chair — the  work  dropped  from  her  hands,  and  she  had  neither 
power  to  speak  or  move. 

“I  fear  I have  surprised  and  alarmed  you,”  said  Lord  Mortimer. 
“ I ask  pardon  for  my  intrusion,  but  I was  informed  I should  find 
Mr.  Fitzalan  here.” 

“ He  is  in  the  study,  I believe,  my  lord,”  replied  Amanda,  coolly, 
and  with  restored  composure ; “ I will  go  and  inform  him  your  lord- 
ship  wishes  to  see  him.” 

“Ho,”  exclaimed  he,  “I  will  not  suffer  you  to  have  so  much 
trouble ; my  business  is  hot  so  urgent  as  to  require  my  seeing  him 
immediately.”  He  re-seated  Amanda,  and  drew  a chair  near  her. 

She  pretended  to  be  busy  with  her  work ; while  the  eyes  of  Lord 
Mortimer  were  cast  round  the  room,  as  if  viewing  well-known 
objects,  which  at  once  pleased  and  pained  his  sensibility,  by  awaking 
the  memory  of  past  delightful  days.  “ This  room,”  said  he,  softly 
sighing,  “ 1 well  remember ; it  was  the  favourite  retirement  of  one 
of  the  most  amiable  of  women.” 

“ So  I have  heard,”  replied  Amanda,  “ the  virtues  of  Lady  Cherbury 
are  remembered  with  the  truest  gratitude  by  many  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  castle.” 

“ I think,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  gazing  upon  Amanda  with  tlia 
softest  tenderness,  “the  apartment  is  s'lill  occupied  by  a kindred 
spirit.” 

Amanda’s  eyes  were  instantly  bent  upon  the  ground,  and  a gentle 


190 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


sigh  heaved  her  bosom;  but  it  was  rather  the  sigh  of  i egret  than 
pleasure;  with  such  an  accent  as  this,  Lord  Mortimer  was  wont  to 
address  her  at  Tudor  Hall,  but  she  had  now  reason  to  think  it  only 
assumed,  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  whether  she  yet  retained  any 
sensibihty  for  him.  Had  he  not  treated  her  vnth  the  most  pointed 
neglect : was  he  not  the  declared  admirer  of  Lady  Euphrasia?  had  he 
not  confessed,  on  entering  the  room,  he  came  to  seek  not  her,  but  her 
father?  These  ideas  rushing  through  her  mind,  determined  her  to 
continue  no  longer  with  him : delicacy  as  well  as  pride  urged  her  to 
this ; for  she  feared,  if  she  longer  listened  to  his  insinuating  language, 
it  might  lead  her  to  betray  the  feelings  of  her  heart ; she  therefore 
arose,  and  said  she  would  acquaint  her  father  his  lordship  waited  for 
him. 

“ Cold,  insensible  Amanda,”  cried  he,  snatching  her  hand,  to  pre- 
vent her  departing,  “ is  it  thus  you  leave  me  ? When  we  parted  in 
Wales,  I could  not  have  believed  we  should  ever  have  had  such  a 
meeting  as  this.” 

“ Perhaps  not,  my  lord,”  replied  she,  somewhat  haughtily ; “ but 
we  have  both  thought  more  prudently  since  that  period.” 

Then  why,”  said  he,  “ did  not  prudence  teach  you  to  shun  a con- 
duct which  could  create  suspicion  ?” 

“ Suspicion,  my  lord!”  repeated  Amanda,  with  a kind  of  horror  in 
her  look. 

“Pardon  me,”  cried  he,  “the  word  is  disagreeable:  but  Miss  Eitz- 
alan,  when  you  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which  you  have  acted  to 
me : your  precipitate,  your  clandestine  departure,  at  the  very  period 
when  a mutual  acknowledgement  of  reciprocal  feelings  should  have 
been  attended  with  the  most  explicit  candour  on  both  sides,  you  can- 
not wonder  at  un^fleasant  conjectures  and  tormenting  doubts  obtruding 
on  my  mind.” 

“ Is  it  possible,  my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  “ you  never  conceived  the 
reason  of  my  departure?  Is  it  possible  reflection  never  pointed 
it  out?” 

“ Hever,  I solemnly  assure  you ; nor  shall  I be  happy  till  I know 
it.”  He  paused,  as  if  for  a reply;  but  Amanda,  agitated  by  his 
words,  had  not  power  to  speak.  Whilst  he  stood  silent,  trembling, 
and  apparently  embarrassed,  she  heard  her  father’s  voice,  as  he 
ascended  the  stairs.  This  instantly  restored  hers.  “I  must  go,  my 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


191 


.ord,”  cried  she,  starting  and  struggling  to  withdraw  her  hand. 

‘ Promise,  then,  to  meet  me,”  he  said,  this  evening,  at  St.  Catharine’s, 
Dj  seven,  or  I will  not  let  you  go ; my  soul  will  be  in  torture  till  I 
nave  your  actions  explained.”  “ I do  promise,”  said  Amanda.  Lord 
Mortimer  released  her,  and  she  retired  into  her  chamber  just  timo 
enough  to  avoid  her  father.. 

Again  her  hopes  began  to  revive ; again  she  believed  she  was  not 
mistaken  in  supposing  Lord  Mortimer  had  come  into  Ireland  on  her 
account.  His  being  mentioned  as  the  admirer  of  Lady  Euphrasia, 
she  supposed  owing  to  his  being  a resident  in  the  house  with  her. — 
About  herself,  had  he  been  indifferent,  he  never  could  have  betrayed 
such  emotions ; his  looks,  as  well  as  his  language,  expressed  the  feel- 
ings of  a heart  tenderly  attached  and  truly  distressed.  Lest  any  cir- 
cumstance had  happened,  which  would  prevent  a renewal  of  that 
attachment,  she  felt  as  much  impatience  as  he  manifested,  to  give  the 
desired  explanation  of  her  conduct. 

His  lordship  was  scarcely  gone,  ere  Lady  Greystock  made  her 
appearance.  Amanda  supposed,  as  usual,  she  only  came  to  pay  a 
flying  visit;  how  great,  then,  was  her  mortification  and  surprise, 
when  her  ladyship  told  her  she  was  come  to  spend  the  day  quite  in 
the  family  way  with  her,  as  the  ladies  of  Grangeville  were  so  busy 
preparing  for  a splendid  entertainment  they  were  to  be  at  the  ensu- 
ing day,  that  they  had  excluded  all  visitors,  and  rendered  the  house 
quite  disagreeable. 

Amanda  endeavoured  to  appear  pleased,  but  to  converse  she  found 
almost  impossible,  her  thoughts  were  so  engrossed  by  an  absent 
object ; happily  her  ladyship  was  so  very  loquacious  herself,  as  at  all 
times  to  require  a listener  more  than  a speaker ; she  was  therefore 
well  satisfied  with  the  taciturnity  of  her  fair  companion.  Amanda 
tried  to  derive  some  comfort  from  the  hope  that  her  ladyship  would 
depart  early  in  the  evening,  to  which  she  fiattered  herself  she  would 
be  induced  by  the  idea  of  a comfortable  whist  party  at  home.  But 
iix  o’clock  struck  and  she  manifested  no  inclination  to  move, 
Amanda  was  in  agony;  her  cheek  was  flushed  with  agitation;  she 
rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  to  conceal  her  emotion,  whilst  her 
father  and  Lady  Greystock  were  conversing ; the  former  at  last  said, 
he  had  some  letters  to  write,  and  begged  her  ladyship  to  excuse  his 
absence  for  a few  minutes. — This  she  most  graciously  promised  to  do 


192 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


and  pulling  out  her  knotting,  requested  Amanda  to  read  to  her  till  tea 
time.  Amanda  took  up  a hook,  hut  was  so  confused,  she  scarcely 
knew  what,  or  how  she  read. 

“Softly,  softly,  my  dear  child,”  at  last  exclaimed  her  ladyship, 
whose  attention  could  hy  no  means  keep  pace  with  the  rapid  manner 
in  which  she  read.  “I  protest  you  post  on  with  as  much  expeuition 
as  my  Lady  Blerner’s  ponies  on  the  circular.”  Amanda  blushed  and 
began  to  read  slowly ; hut  when  the  clock  struck  seven,  her  feelings 
could  no  longer  he  repressed.  “ Good  heaven,”  cried  she,  letting  the 
hook  drop  from  her  hand,  and  starting  from  her  chair,  “this  is  too 
much.”  “ Bless  me,  my  dear,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  staring  at  her, 
“ What  is  the  matter  ?”  “ Only  a slight  head-ache,  madam,  answered 

Amanda,  continuing  to  walk  about  the  room. 

Her  busy  fancy  represented  Lord  Mortimer  now  impatiently  wait- 
ing for  her — thinking  in  every  sound  which  echoed  among  the  deso- 
late ruins  of  St.  Catharine’s  he  heard  her  footsteps,  his  soul  melting 
with  tenderness  at  the  idea  of  a perfect  reconciliation,  which  an 
unsatisfied  doubt  only  retarded.  What  would  he  infer  from  her  not 
keeping  an  appointment  so  ardentl]^  desired,  so  solemnly  promised, 
hut  that  she  was  unable  to  remove  that  doubt  to  his  satisfaction ; per- 
haps he  would  not  credit  the  reason  she  could  assign  for  breaking  he:: 
engagement : perhaps,  piqued  at  her  doing  so  he  would  not  afford  her 
an  opportunity  of  accounting  for  it,  or  the  apparent  mystery  of  her 
late  conduct ; to  retain  his  doubts  would  be  to  lose  his  tenderness,  and 
at  last  perhaps  expel  her  from  his  heart.  She  thought  of  sending 
Ellen  to  acquaint  him  with  the  occasion  of  her  detention  at  home ; 
but  this  idea  existed  but  for  a moment ; an  appointment  she  concealed 
from  her  father,  she  could  not  bear  to  divulge  to  any  other  person ; 
it  would  be  a breach  of  duty  and  delicacy  she  thought : “ Ho,”  said 
she  to  herself,  “ I will  not,  from  the  thoughtlessness  and  impetuosity 
which  led  so  many  of  my  sex  astray,  overstep  the  bounds  of  propriety, 
and  to  reinstate  myself  in  the  esteem  of  one  person,  lose  that  of  others, 
and  above  all  that  of  my  own  heart.  If  Lord  Mortimer  refuses  tc 
hear  my  justification,  he  wiU  act  neither  agreeable  to  candour  nor  jus- 
tice, and  pride  must  aid  in  repelling  my  regret.” 

“You  look  strangely  indeed,  my  dear,’-’  said  Lady  Greystock,  who 
was  attentively  watching  her  whilst  those  ideas  wore  rising  in  hex 
mind.  Amanda  recollecting  the  remarks  which  might  be  made  OQ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET* 


103 


ter  behaviour,  and  apologizing  for  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
acted,  took  her  seat  with  some  degree  of  composure.  Fitzalan  soon 
after  entered  the  room,  and  tea  was  made ; when  over,  Lady  Grey- 
stock  declared  they  were  a snug  party  for  three-handed  whisL 
Amanda  would  gladly  have  excused  herself  from  being  of  the  party, 
but  politeness  made  her  conceal  her  reluctance ; her  extreme  dejec- 
tion was  noticed  both  by  Fitzalan  and  her  ladyship ; the  latter  imp  a.  • 
ted  it  to  regret  at  not  being  permitted  by  her  father  to  accept  an 
invitation  she  had  received  for  a ball  the  ensuing  evening. 

‘‘  Don’t  fret  about  it,  my  dear  cre^ure,”  said  she,  laying  down  tho 
cards  to  administer  the  consolation  she  required,  “ ’tis  not  by  frequent- 
ing balls  and  public  places  a girl  always  stands  the  best  chance  of 
being  provided  for ; I,  for  my  part,  have  been  married  three  times, 
yet  never  made  a conquest  of  any  one  of  my  husbands  in  a public 
place : no,  it  was  the  privacy  of  my  life  partly  obtained  for  me  so 
many  proofs  of  good  fortune.” — Fitzalan  and  Amanda  laughed.  “ I 
shall  never  be  dissatisfied  with  staying  at  home,”  said  the  latter, 
“ though  without  either  expecting  or  desiring  to  have  my  retirement 
recompensed  as  your  ladyship’s  was.” 

‘^One  prize  will  satisfy  you  then,”  said  Fitzalan.  “Ah!”  cried 
Lady  Greystock,  “it  is  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  who  will  obtain 
the  capital  one;  I don’t  know  where  such  another  young  man  as 
Lord  Mortimer  is  to  be  found.”  “Then  your  ladyship  supposes,” 
said  Fitzalan,  “there  is  some  truth  in  the  reports  circulated,  relatlva 
to  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia.”  “I  assure  you  there  is,”  said  she, 
“ and  I think  the  connection  to  be  a very  eligible  one ; their  birth, 
their  fortunes  are  equal.”  But  ah!  thought  Amanda,  how  unlike 
their  dispositions.  “I  dare  say,”  proceeded  her  ladyship,  “Lady 
Euphrasia  will  have  changed  her  title  before  this  time  next  year.” 

Fitzalan  glanced  at  Amanda;  her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  she 
put  him  and  Lady  Greystock  out  in  the  game  by  the  errors  she  com- 
mitted. At  last  the  carriage  from  Grangeville  arrived,  and  broke  up 
a party  Amanda  could  not  much  longer  have  supported.  Her  father 
perceived  the  painful  efforts  she  mad<’  to  conceal  her  distress:  he 
pitied  her  from  his  soul,  and  pretending  to  think  she  was  only  indis- 
posed, entreated  her  to  retire  to  her  chamber.  Amanda  gladly  com- 
plied with  this  entreaty  and  began  to  meditate  on  what  Greystock 
bad  said:  "Was  there  not  a probability  of  Hs  being  true?  Might  not 

9 


194 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


the  indiiferenco  Lord  Mortimer  liad  manifested  on  his  first  arrival  in 
the  neighbourhood,  have  really  originated  from  a change  of  affec- 
tions ? might  not  the  tenderness  he  displayed  in  the  morning,  have 
been  concei’ted  with  the  hope  of  its  inducing  her  to  gratify  his  curi- 
osity, bv  relating  the  reason  of  her  journey  from  Wales,  or  please 
his  vanity  by  tempting  her  to  give  some  proof  of  attachment  ? But 
she  soon  receded  from  this  idea.  Lady  Greystock  was  not  infallible 
in  her  judgment:  reports  of  approaching  nuptials  Amanda  l^new  had 
often  been  raised  without  any  foundation  for  them;  the  present 
report,  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  might  be  one 
of  that  nature ; she  could  not  believe  him  so  egregiously  vain,  or  so 
deliberately  base,  as  to  counterfeit  tenderness,  merely  for  the  purpose 
of  having  his  curiosity  or  vanity  gratified ; she  felt,  however,  truly 
unhappy,  and  could  derive  no  consolation  but  from  the  hope  that  her 
suspense,  at  least,  would  soon  be  terminated. 

She  passed  a restless  night,  nor  was  her  morning  more  composed ; 
she  could  not  settle  to  any  of  her  usual  avocations ; every  step  she 
heard,  she  started  in  expectations  of  instantly  seeing  Lord  Mortimer, 
but  he  did  not  appear.  After  dinner,  she  walked  out  alone,  and  took 
the  road  to  St.  Catherine’s.  When  she  reached  the  ruins,  she  felt 
fatigued,  and  sat  down  upon  a flag  in  the  chapel  to  rest  herself. 
“ Here,”  said  she,  pensively  leaning  her  head  upon  her  hand,  “ Morti- 
ner  waited  for  me ; perhaps  with  tender  impatience.„  Here  too,  he 
lerhaps  accused  me  of  neglect  or  deceit.”  She  heard  a rustling 
behind  her,  and  turning,  perceived  sister  Mary. 

“You  are  welcome,  my  dear  soul,”  cried  the  good-natured  nun, 
Tmiiing  forward  and  sitting  down  by  her,  “ but  why  did  you  not  come 
.n  to  see  us,”  continued  she,  affectionately  kissing  her.  Amanda  said 
“such  was  her  intention,  but  feeling  a little  indisposed,  she  had 
remained  in  the  air,  in  hopes  of  growing  better.”  “ Oh  Jesu,”  cried 
the  sister,  “ you  do  indeed  look  ill,  I must  go  and  get  you  a cordial 
from  our  prioress,  Avho  is  quite  a doctress,  I assure  you.” 

Amanda  caught  her  gown  as  she  was  running  away,  and  assured 
her  she  was  better. 

“Well  then,”  said  she,  resuming  her  seat,  “I  must  tell  you  an  odd 
thing  which  happened  here  last  night ; I came  out  to  walk  about  the 
ruins  between  the  lights,  that  is,  as  one  may  say,  when  it  is  neither 
dark  nor  light.  As  the  air  was  cold,  I vrrapt  my  veil  about  me,  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


195 


ii  A just  turned  tlie  cloisters,  when  I heard  a quick  foot  pacing  after 
me : well,  I,  supposing  it  to  be  one  of  the  sisters,  walked  slowly  that 
she  might  easily  overtake  me ; hut  you  may  guess  my  surprise  when 
I was  overtaken,  not  by  one  of  them  indeed,  hut  by  one  of  the  finest 
and  most  beautiful  young  men  I ever  beheld.  Lord  how  he  did 
start  when  he  saw  me,  just  for  all  the  world  as  if  I were  a ghost; 
he  looked  quite  wild,  and  flew  oflP  muttering  something  to  himself. 
Well,  I thought  all  this  strange,  and  was  making  all  the  haste  I could 
to  the  convent,  when  he  appeared  again,  coming  from  under  that 
broken  arch,  and  he  bowed  and  smiled  so  sweetly,  and  held  his  hat 
in  his  hand  so  respectfully,  whilst  he  begged  my  pardon  for  the  alarm 
he  had  given  me ; and  then  he  blushed  and  strove  to  hide  his  confu- 
sion with  his  handkerchief,  while  he  asked  me  if  I had  seen  e’er  a 
young  lady  about  the  ruins  that  evening,  as  a particular  friend  had 
informed  him  she  would  be  there,  and  desired  him. to  escort  her 
home.” 

“ Why,  my  dear  sir,”  says  I,  “ I have  been  about  this  place  the 
whole  evening,  and  here  has  neither  been  man,  woman,  or  child,  but 
you  and  myself ; so  the  young  lady  changed  her  mind  and  took  anoth- 
er ramble.”  “ So  I suppose,”  said  he;  and  he  looked  so  pale,  and  so 
melancholy,  I could  not  help  thinking  it  was  a sweetheart  he  had 
been  seeking ; so  by  way  of  giving  him  a bit  of  comfort,  “ Sir,”  says 
I,  “ if  you  will  leave  any  marks  of  the  young  lady  you  were  seeking, 
with  me,  I will  watch  here  myself  a little  longer  for  her,  and  if  she 
comes,  I will  tell  her  how  uneasy  you  were  at  not  finding  her,  and  be 
sure  to  despatch  her  after  you.”  “ISTo,  he  thanked  me,”  he  said, 
“but  it  was  of  very  little  consequence,  his  not  meeting  iier,  or  indeed 
whether  he  ever  met  her  again,”  and  walked  away. 

“ Did  he !”  said  Amanda. 

“Bless  me!”  exclaimed  the  nun,  “you  are  worse  instead-  of 
better.” 

Amanda  acknowledged  she  was,  and  rising,  requested  she  would 
excuse  lier  for  not  paying  her  compliments  that  evening  at  the 
nuimery. 

Sister  Mary  pressed  her  to  drink  tea  with  the  prioress,  or  at  least 
take  some  of  her  excellent  cordial;  but  Amanda  refused  both 
requests,  and  the  afiectionate  nun  saw  her  depart  with  reluctance. 

Scarcely  had  she  regained  the  road,  ere  a coach  and  six,  preceded 


196 


CHILD KEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


and  followed  by  a number  of  attendants,  approached  with  such 
quickness,  that  she  was  obliged  to  step  aside  to  avoid  it : looking  in 
ac  the  window  as  it  passed,  she  saw  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Euplira- 
sia  seated  in  it,  opposite  to  each  other ; she  saw  they  both  perceived 
her,  and  that  Lady  Euphrasia  laughed,  and  put  her  head  forward  to 
stare  impertinently  at  her. — Amanda  was  mortified  that  they  had 
seen  her ; there  was  something  at  the  moment  humiliating  in  the  con- 
trast between  their  situation  and  hers;  she,  dejected  and  solitary; 
they,  adorned  and  attended  with  all  the  advantages  of  fortune.  But 
in  the  estimation  of  a liberal  mind,  cried  she,  the  want  of  such  advan- 
tages can  never  lessen  me — such  a mind  as  I flatter  myself  Lord 
Mortimer  possesses.  Ah,  if  he  thinks  as  I do,  he  would  prefer  a 
lonely  ramble  in  the  desolate  spot  I have  just  quitted,  to  all  the 
parade  and  magnificence  he  is  about  witnessing.  The  night  past 
heavily  away,  the  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  devoting  all  his  attention 
to  Lady  Euphrasia,  could  not  be  driven  from  her  mind. 

The  next  morning  the  first  object  she  saw,  on  going  to  the  window, 
was  a large  frigate  lying  at  anchor  near  the  castle.  Ellen  entering  her 
chamber,  sighing  heavily,  as  she  always  did,  indeed,  at  the  sight  of  a 
ship,  said,  she  wished  it  contained  her  wandering  sailor.  Amanda 
indulged  a hope  that  Lord  Mortimer  would  appear  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  but  she  was  disappointed.  She  retired  after  tea  in  the  evening 
to  her  dressing  room,  and  seated  in  the  window,  enjoyed  a calm  and 
beautiful  scene ; not  a cloud  concealed  the  bright  azure  of  the  firma- 
ment ; the  moon  spread  a line  of  silver  radiance  over  the  waves,  that 
stole  with  a melancholy  murmur  upon  the  shore ; and  the  silence 
which  reigned  around,  was  only  interrupted  by  the  faint  noise  of  the 
mariners  on  board  the  frigate,  and  their  evening  drum.  At  last 
Amanda  heard  the  paddling  of  oars,  and  perceived  a large  boat 
coming  from  the  ship,  rowed  by  sailors  in  white  shirts  and  trowsers, 
their  voices  keeping  time  to  their  oars.  The  appearance  they  made 
was  picturesque,  and  Amanda  w^atched  them  till  the  boat  disappeared 
among  the  rocks.  The  supper  bell  soon  after  summoned  her  from  the 
window;  but  scarcely  had  she  retired  to  her  chamber  for  the  night, 
ere  Ellen,  smiling,  trembling,  and  apparently  overcome  with  joy^ 
appeared. 

“I  have  seen  him,”  cried  she,  hastily,  “oh,  matam,  I have  seen 
poor  Chip  himself,  and  he  is  as  kind  and  as  true-hearted  as  ever, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


197 


I went  this  evening  to  the  village  to  see  old  Norah,  to  whom  yon 
sent  the  linen,  for  she  is  a pleasing  kind  of  poty,  and  does  not  laugh 
like  the  rest  at  one,  for  their  Welch  tongue;  so  when  I was  returning 
home,  and  at  a goot  tistance  from  her  cabin,  I saw  a great  number 
of  men  coming  towards  me  all  dressed  in  white ; to  be  sure,  as  1 
heard  a great  teal  apout  te  white  poys,  I thought  these  were  nothing 
else,  and  I did  so  quake  and  tremble,  for  there  were  neither  hole,  or 
bush,  or  tree,  on  the  spot,  that  would  have  sheltered  one  of  the  little 
tinty  fairies  of  Peumaenmawr. — Well,  they  came  on,  shouting  and 
laughing,  and  merrier  than  I thought  such  rogues  ought  to  be ; and 
the  moment  tliey  espied  me,  they  gathered  around  me,  and  began 
pulling  me  apout ; so  I gave  a great  scream,  and  tirectly  a voice  (lort, 
how  my  heart  jumped  at  it,)  cried  out  that  is  Eden ; and  to  be  sure 
poor  Chip  soon  had  me  in  his  arms ; and  then  I heard  they  were 
sailors  from  the  frigate,  come  to  get  provisions  at  the  village ; so  I 
turned  pack  witb  them,  and  they  had  a great  powl  of  whiskey  punch, 
and  a whole  sight  of  cakes,  and  Chip  told  me  all  his  adventures ; and 
he  was  so  glad  when  he  heard  I lived  with  you,  because,  he  said,  you 
were  a sweet,  mild  young  lady,  and  he  was  sure  you  would  sometimes 
remind  me  of  him,  and  he  hopes  soon  to  get  his  discharge,  and  then — 

“ You  are  to  be  married,”  said  Amanda,  interjireting  the  blushes  and 
hesitation  of  Ellen. 

“ Yes,  matam,  and  I assure  you  Chip  is  not  altered  for  the  worse  by 
a sea-faring  life ; his  voice,  indeed,  is  a little  of  the  roughest,  but  h€ 
told  me  that  was  owing  to  his  learning  the poatswain’s  whistle;  poor 
fellow,  he  sails  to-morrow  night ; the  ship  is  on.the  Irish  station,  and 
they  are  to  coast  it  to  Dublin.” 

‘‘  Happy  Ellen,”  said  Amanda,  as  she  retired  from  her  chamber, 
“ thy  perturbations  and  disquietudes  are  over ; assured  of  the  affection 
of  thy  village  swain,  peace  and  cheerfulness  will  resume  their  empire 
in  thy  breast.” 

“ The  next  evening,  at  twilight,  Amanda  went  down  to  the  beach 
with  her  father,  to  see  the  fishermen  drawing  their  seines  on  shore, 
on  which  their  hopes  and  the  comfort  of  their  family  depend. 
\Yhilst  Fitzalan  conversed  with  them,  Amanda  rested  herself  on  a low 
rock,  to  observe  their  motions;  in  the  murmur  of  the  waves  there 
was  a gentle  melancholy,  in  unisojv  with  her  present  feelings;  from  a 
pensive  meditation,  which  had  gradually  rendered  her  inattentive  to 


193 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


the  ^cen3  before  her,  she  was  suddenly  roused  by  voices  behind  her. 
She  started  from  her  seat,  for  in  one  of  them  she  imagined  she  dis* 
tinguished  the  accent  of  Lord  Mortimer ; nor  was  she  mistaken ; he 
was  ascending  a winding  path  near  her,  accompanied  by  a naval  offi- 
cer. To  pass  without  seeing  her  was  impossible ; and  as  he  approached 
her,  re  stopped,  apparently  hesitating  whether  or  not  he  should  address 
her.  In  a few  minutes,  his  hesitation  ended  with  waving  his  hand- 
kerchief as  if  to  hid  her  adieu,  whilst  he  proceeded  to  a small  boat 
which  had  been  for  some  time  lying  in  a creek  among  the  rocks,  and 
which,  on  receiving  him  and  his  companion,  immediately  rowed  to 
the  frigate.  Amanda  trembled,  her  heart  beat  violently.  Ellen  had 
informed  her  the  frigate  was  to  sail  that  night;  and  what  could 
induce  Lord  Mortimer  to  visit  it  at  such  an  hour,  except  an  intention 
of  departing  in  it. 

Uncertainty  is  dreadful ; she  grew  sick  with  anxiety  before  her 
father  returned  to  the  castle ; on  enteiing  it,  she  immediately  repaired 
to  her  chamber,  and  calling  Ellen  hastily,  demanded  if  Chip’s  intelli- 
gence ^ as  true. 

Alas ! yes,”  replied  Ellen,  weeping  violently,  ‘‘  and  I know  the 
reason  you  inquire.  You  saw  Lord  Mortimer  going  to  the  ship ; — 1 
saw  him  myself,  as  I stood  on  the  beach  talking  to  Chip,  who  was 
one  of  the  sailors  that  came  in  the  boat  for  his  lordship  and  the  cap- 
tain; and,  to  be  sure,  the  sight  left  my  eyes  when  I saw  my  lort 
departing,  pecause  I knew  he  was  going  away  in  anger  at  the  treat- 
ment he  supposed  he  received  from  you.” 

“From  me?”  exclaimed  Amanda. 

“ Oh,  you  will  never  forgive  me  for  acting  so  badly  as  I have  done 
uyyou,”  sobbed  Ellen,  “put  inteed  the  sight  of  poor  Chip  drove 
irverything  from  my  memory  put  himself.  Last  night  as  I was  going 
to  hTorah’s,  I overtook  Lord  Mortimer  on  the  road,  who  was  walking 
quite  sorrowfully,  as  I may  say,  by  himself ; so  to  be  sure,  I thought 
I could  do  no  less  in  good  manners,  than  drop  him  a curtesy  as  I 
past ; so  up  he  came  to  me  directly ; “ And  my  good  girl,  how  are 
you?”  said  he,  and  he  smiled  so  sweetly,  and  looked  so  handsome c 
and  then  he  took  my  hand ; and  to  be  sure  his  hand  was  as  soft  as 
velvet ; “ And  pray,  Ellen,”  said  he,  “ is  Miss  Fitza^an  at  home,  and 
disengaged?”  I told  him  you  was,  and  Cot  knows,  my  lord,  says  L 
and  melancholy  enough  too.  I left  her  in  the  tressing-room  window^ 


109 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 

looting  out  at  the  waves  and  listening  to  the  winds.  “Well,  hasten 
home,”  cried  he,  “ and  tell  her  she  will  oblige  me  greatly  by  meeting 
me  immediately  at  the  rocks  beyond  the  castle.”  I promised  him  I 
wonld^  and  he  put,  nay,  inteed,  forced  five  guineas  into  my  hand,  and 
turned  ofl'  another  road,  charging  me  not  to  forget,  put  as  I was  near 
Norah’s,  I thought  I might  just  step  in  to  see  how  she  did,  and  when 
I left  her  I met  poor  Chip,  and  lort  knows  I am  afraid  he  would  have 
made  me  forget  my  own  tear  father  and  mother.” 

“ Oh,  Ellen,”  cried  Amanda,  “ how  oould  you  serve  me  so.” 

“ Oh  tear,”  said  Ellen,  redoubling  her  tears,  “ I am  certainly  one 
of  the  most  misfortunate  girls  in  the  world;  but  lort,  now.  Miss 
Amanda,  why  should  you  be  so  sorrowful ; for  certain,  my  lort  loves 
you  too  well  always  to  be  angry ; there  is  poor  Chip  now,  though  he 
thought  I loved  Parson  Howell,  he  never  forgot  me.” 

Ellen’s  efforts  at  consolation  were  not  successful,  and  Amanda  dis- 
missed her,  that  unnoticed  and  unrestrained  she  might  indulge  the 
tears  which  fiowed  at  the  idea  of  a long,  lasting  separation,  perhaps, 
from  Lord  Mortimer ; offended,  justly  offended,  as  he  supposed,  with 
her;  the  probability  was,  she  would  be  banished  his  thoughts,  or 
if  remembered,  at  least  without  esteem  or  tenderness ; thus  might 
his  heart  soon  be  qualified  for  making  another  choice.  She  walked 
to  the  window,  and  saw  the  ship  already  under  weigh  ; she  saw  the 
white  sails  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  and  heard  the  shouts  of  the 
mariners.  “ Oh  Mortimer  I”  cried  she,  is  it  thus  we  part?  is  it  thus 
the  expectations  you  raised  in  my  heart  are  disappointed?  You  go 
hence,  and  deem  Amanda  unworthy  a farewell;  you  gaze  perhaps  at 
this  moment  on  Castle  Carberry  without  breathing  one  sigh  for  it» 
inhabitants ; ah,  had  you  loved  sincerely,  never  would  the  impulse  of 
resentment  have  conquered  the  emotion  of  tenderness ; no,  Mortimer, 
you  deceived  me,  and  perhaps  yourself,  in  saying  I was  dear  to  you : 
bad  I been  so,  never  could  you  have  acted  in  this  manner.”  Her 
eyes  followed  the  course  of  the  vessel,  till  it  appeared  like  a speck  in 
the  horizon.  “ He  is  gone,”  said  she,  weeping  afresh,  and  withdraw- 
ing herself  from  the  window ; “ he  is  gone,  and  if  I ever  meet  him 
again,  it  will  probably  be  as  the  husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia  ” 


200 


CniLDREK  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CH  APTEK  XXII. 

Think’st  thou  I’ll  make  a life  of  jealousy, 

To  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon 
With  fresh  surmises.  No,  to  be  once  in  doubt, 

Is  to  be  resolv’d.  But  yet 

I’ll  see  before  I doubt : when  I doubt,  prove, 

And  on  the  proof  there  is  no  more  but  this, 

Away  at  once  with  love  and  jealousy.  Shakkspbabs. 

Loed  Moetimeb  had,  in  reality,  departed  with  sentiments  very 
unfavourable  to  Amanda ; he  had  waited  impatiently  at  St.  Catha- 
rine’s, in  fond  expectation  of  having  all  his  doubts  removed  by  a 
candid  explanation  of  the  motives  which  caused  her  precipitate  jour- 
ney from  Wales;  his  soul  sighed  for  reconciliation;  his  tenderness 
was  redoubled  by  being  so  long  restrained ; the  idea  of  folding  his 
beloved  Amanda  to  his  bosom,  and  hearing  that  she  deserved  all  the 
tenderness  and  sensibility  which  glowed  in  that  bosom  for  her,  gave 
him  the  highest  pleasure : but  when  the  appointed  hour  passed,  and 
no  Amanda  appeared,  language  cannot  express  his  disappointment  i 
almost  distracted  by  it,  he  ventured  to  inquire  concerning  her,  from 
sister  Mary;  and  long  after  the  friendly  nun  had  retired  to  the 
convent,  continued  to  wander  about  the  ruins,  tiU  the  shadows  of 
night  had  enveloped  every  object  from  his  view. 

“ She  fears  to  come  then,”  exclaimed  he,  quitting  the  desolate  spot, 
oppressed  with  the  keenest  anguish,  “she  fears  to  come  because  she 
cannot  satisfy  my  doubts ; I witnessed  her  agitation,  her  embarrass- 
ment this  morning,  when  I hinted  at  them;  the  mystery  which 
separated  us  will  not  be  explained,  and  it  is  vain  to  think  we  shall 
ever  meet,  as  I once  flattered  myself  we  should.” 

This  thought  seemed  to  strike  at  all  his  hopes,  the  distress  and 
disorder  of  his  mind  was  depicted  on  his  countenance,  and  escaped 
not  the  observation  and  raillery  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphra- 
sia : but  their  raillery  was  in  vain,  and  unanswered  by  him ; he  was 
absorbed  in  a train  of  pensive  reflections,  which  they  had  neither 
power  to  remove  or  disturb. 

Most  unwilhngly  he  accompanied  them  the  ensuing  day  to  a 
splendid  entertainment,  given  purposely  for  them,  in  the  neighbour- 


C II, I L D R E N OF  THE  ABBEY, 


201 


hood.  The  unexpected  sight  of  Amanda,  as  she  stood  on  a little 
elevated  bank,  to  avoid  the  carriage,  caused  a sudden  emotion  of 
surprise  and  delight  in  his  bosom ; the  utmost  powers  of  eloquence 
could  not  have  pleaded  her  cause  so  successfully  as  her  own  appear- 
ance at  that  minute  did;  the  languor  of  her  face;  its  mild  and 
seraphic  expression;  her  pensive  attitude,  and  the  timid  modesty 
with  which  she  seemed  shrinking  from  observation,  all  touched  the 
sensibility  of  Lord  Mortimer,  awakened  his  softest  feelings,  revived 
his  hopes  and  made  him  resolve  to  seek  anotlier  opportunity  of 
demanding  an  explanation  from  her.  The  sudden  colour  which 
flushed  in  his  cheeks,  and  the  sparkling  of  his  eyes,  as  he  looked  from 
the  carriage,  attracted  the  notice  of  his  companions:  they  smiled 
maliciously  at  each  other,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  declared  she  supposed 
the  girl  was  stationed  there  to  try  and  attract  admiration,  which, 
perhaps,  her  siUy  old  father  had  told  her  she  merited ; or  else  to  meet 
with  adventures.  Lord  Mortimer  drew  in  his  head,  and  the  contrast 
between  her  ladyship  and  the  fair  being  he  had  been  looking  at, 
never  struck  him  so  forcibly  as  at  that  moment,  and  lessent^  one  as 
much  as  it  elevated  the  other  in  his  estimation. 

He  wandered  near  the  castle  the  next  evening,  in  hopes  of  meeting 
Amanda;  his  disappointment  was  diminished  by  seeing  Ellen,  who 
he  was  confident  would  be  faithful  to  the  message  intrusted  to  her ; 
with  this  confidence  he  hastened  to  the  rocks,  every  moment  expect- 
ing the  appearance  of  Amanda.  Her  image,  as  it  appeared  to  him 
the  preceding  day,  dwelt  upon  his  imagination,  and  he  forcibly  felt 
how  essential  to  his  peace  was  a reconcilation  with  her.  An  hour 
elapsed,  and  his  tenderness  again  began  to  give  way  to  resentment : it 
w^  not  Ellen,  but  Amanda  he  doubted.  He  traversed  the  beach  in 
an  agony  of  impatience  and  anxiety ; a feverish  heat  pervaded  his 
frame,  and  he  trembled  with  agitation.  At  length  he  heard  the 
distant  sound  of  the  supper  bell  at  Ulster  Lodge,  which  never  rang 
till  a late  hour.  All  hopes  of  seeing  Amanda  were  now  given  up,  and 
every  intention  of  meeting  her  at  a future  period  relinquished.  She 
avoided  him  designedly,  it  was  evident ! he  could  have  curst  himself 
for  betraying  such  anxiety  about  her,  and  his  wounded  pride  revolted 
from  the  idea  of  seeking  another  interview.  ‘‘  Ho,  Amanda,”  ho 
exclaimed  as  he  passed  the  castle,  “ you  can  no  longer  have  any  claim 
upon  me;  mysterious  appearances  in  the  most  candid  mind  will  raise 


202 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBET. 


BuspicionB:  in  giving  you  an  opportunity  for  account'! Lg  for  such 
appearances,  I did  all  that  candour,  tenderness,  sensibility,  and 
Honour  could  dictate ; and  instead  of  again  making  efforts  to  converse 
with  you,  I must  now  make  others,  which  I trust  will  he  more 
successful,  entirely  to  forget  you.” 

The  next  morning  he  accompanied  the  marquis  in  his  barge  to  the 
frigate,  where  he  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  in  the  commander 
an  old  friend  of  his.  Captain  Somerville  returned  to  Ulster  Lodge 
with  his  visitors,  and  there,  in  a half  jesting,  half  serious  manner, 
asked  Lord  Mortimer  to  accompany  him  in  his  intended  cruise.  This 
his  lordship  instantly  promised  he  would,  with  pleasure : he  was  com- 
pletely tired  of  the  Eosline  family,  and  he  was  besides  glad  of  an  oppor- 
tunity of  convincing  Amanda,  he  was  not  quite  so  fascinated  to  her 
as  she  perhaps  believed,  by  his  quitting  the  neighbourhood  ere  their 
departure.  As  he  descended  to  the  boat,  the  sight  of  Amanda  shook 
his  resolution ; she  seemed  destined  to  cross  his  path,  merely  to  give 
him  disquietude;  an  ardent  wish  sprung  in  his  heart  to  address  her, 
but  it  was  instantly  suppressed,  by  reflecting  how  premeditately  she 
had  avoided  him ; pride  therefore  prompted  him  to  pass  her  in 
silence,  yet  as  the  boat  receded  from  the  shore,  his  eyes  were  riveted 
to  the  spot  on  which  she  stood,  and  when  he  could  no  longer  see  the 
white  gown  fluttering  in  the  wind,  he  gave  a sigh  to  the  remembrance 
of  the  happy  days  he  had  passed  with  her  at  Tudor  Hall ; another  to 
the  idea  that  such  hours  would  never  more  be  enjoyed  by  him. 

The  family  at  Ulster  Lodge  were  both  mortified  and  disappointed 
by  his  departure,  though  he,  perceiving  their  displeasure,  had  endea- 
voured to  lessen  it,  by  promising  to  wait  their  arrival  in  Dublin,  and 
return  with  them  to  England.  His  departure  seemed  a tacit  intima- 
tion that  he  was  not  as  much  attached  to  Lady  Euphrasia  as  they 
wished  him  to  be  ; a suspicion  of  this  nature  had,  indeed,  for  some 
time  pervaded  their  minds,  and  also  that  his  affections  were  elsewhere 
disposed  of:  they  had  leason  to  believe  that  the  person  who  pos- 
sessed them  dwelt  in  the  vicinity  of  the  lodge,  from  the  great  altera- 
tion which  took  place  in  his  manner,  immediately  after  his  arrival  at 
it.  In  hopes  of  discovering  who  this  was,  they  watched  him  critic* 
ally  at  all  the  parties  he  frequented  with  them,  but  soon  found  it  was 
not  the  present  but  the  absent  objects  had  the  pov/er  of  exciting 
emotions  in  him.  At  the  name  of  Amanda  Eitzalan,  or  her  father 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


203 


tjbserved  him  colour,  and  frequently  saw  liim  contemplate  Castle 
Oarbcrry,  as  if  it  contained  a being  infinitely  dear  to  him;  to 
Amanda,  therefore,  they  feared  he  was  attached,  and  supposed  the 
attachmerit  commenced  at  Kilcorban’s  ball  where  they  had  noticed 
his  impassioned  glances  at  this  hated,  though  because  too  lovely, 
relation.  The  most  unbounded  rage  took  possession  of  their  souls  , 
they  regretted  having  ever  come  to  Ireland,  where  they  supposed 
Lord  Mortimer  had  first  seen  Amanda,  as  Lord  Oherbury  had  men- 
tioned the  children  of  Fitzalan  being  strangers  to  him  and  his  family. 
They  knew  the  passions  of  Lord  Oherbury  were  impetuous,  and 
that  ambition  was  the  leading  principle  of  his  soul : anxious  for  an 
alliance  between  his  family  and  theirs,  they  knew  he  would  ill  brook 
any  obstacle  which  should  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  its  completion, 
and  therefore  resolved  if  Lord  Mortimer  at  their  next  meeting 
appeared  averse  to  the  wishes  of  his  father,  to  acquaint  the  earl  with 
the  occasion  of  his  son’s  disinclination,  and  represent  Fitzalan  and 
his  daughter  as  aiding  and  abetting  each  other,  in  an  insidious  scheme 
to  entangle  the  affections  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  draw  him  into  a 
marriage:  a scheme  which,  to  a man  of  the  world  (as  they  knew 
Lord  Oherbury  to  be,)  would  appear  so  very  probable  as  to  gain 
implicit  credit.  This  they  knew  would  convert  the  esteem  he  felt  for 
Fitzalan  into  hatred  and  contempt : his  favour  would  consequently 
be  withdrawn,  dnd  the  father  and  child  again  sink  into  indigent 
obscurity.  To  think  that  Amanda,  by  dire  necessity,  should  bo 
reduced  to  servitude ; to  think  the  elegance  of  her  form  should  be 
disguised  by  the  garb  of  poverty,  and  the  charms  of  her  face  faded  by 
misery,  were  ideaii  so  grateful,  so  ecstatic  to  their  hearts,  that  to  have 
them  realized,  they  felt  they  could  with  pleasure  relinquish  the  atten- 
tions of  Lord  Mortimer  to  have  a pretext  for  injuring  Fitzalan  with 
his  father;  though  not  quite  assured  their  suspicions  were  well 
founded,  they  would  never  have  hesitated  communicating  them  as 
such  to  Lord  Oherbury ; but  for  their  own  satisfaction  they  wished  to 
know  what  reasons  they  had  to  entertain  them.  Lady  Greystock  was 
the  only  person  they  observed  on  a footing  of  intimacy  with  Amanda, 
and  through  her  means  flattered  themselves  they  might  make  the 
desired  discovery.  They  therefore  began  to  unbend  from  their 
haughtiness,  and  make  overtures  for  an  intimacy  with  her:  over- 
tures she  received  with  delight,  and  ip  their  present  attention  forgot 


204 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


their  past  neglect,  wliicli  had  given  her  such  disgust.  As  they 
became  intimate  with  her,  they  were  much  amused  by  a shrewd 
manner  she  possessed  of  telling  stories,  and  placing  the  foibles  and 
imperfections  of  their  visitors  in  the  most  conspicuous  and  ludicrous 
light,  particularly  such  visitors  as  were  not  agreeable  to  them.  With 
the  foibles  of  human  nature  she  was  well  acquainted,  also  with  the 
art  of  turning  those  foibles  to  her  own  advantage.  She  perceived  the 
egregious  vanity  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  by 
administering  large  portions  of  what  Sterne  styles  the  delicious 
essence  of  the  soul,  soon  became  an  immense  favourite.  After  an 
injunction  of  secrecy,  the  marchioness  communicated  her  fears  rela- 
tive to  Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda,  which  she  pretended  regard  for 
one,  and  pity  for  the  other,  had  excited ; as  an  attachment  either  of 
an  honourable  or  dishonourable  nature,  she  knew  Lord  Cherbury  -would 
never  pardon.  To  know,  therefore,  how  far  matters  had  proceeded 
between  them,  would  be  some  satisfaction,  and  might  perhaps,  be  the 
means  of  preventing  the  ill  consequences  she  dreaded.  Lady  Grey- 
stock  was  not  to  be  imposed  on;  she  perceived  it  was  not  pity  for 
Amanda,  hut  envy  and  jealousy  which  had  excited  the  fears  of  the 
marchioness.  If  Lord  Mortimer  was  attached  to  Amanda,  from  his 
sentiments  and  manner,  she  was  convinced  it  was  an  attachment  of 
the  purest  nature.  She  carefully  concealed  her  thoughts,  however, 
affected  to  enter  into  all  the  alarms  of  the  marchioness,  and,  as  she 
jsaw  she  was  expected  to  do,  promised  all  in  her  power  should  be 
done  for  discovering  what  attachment  subsisted  between  his  lordship 
and  Miss  Eitzalan.  For  this  purpose  she  began  to  grow  constant  in 
her  visits  at  Castle  Carberry,  often  spending  whole  day^s  in  the  most 
familiar  manner  with  Amanda,  and  endeavouring,  by  various 
methods,  to  beguile  her  of  the  secrets  of  her  heart.  Sometimes  she 
rallied  her  on  her  melancholy ; sometimes  expressed  pity  for  it,  in 
strains  of  the  most  soothing  tenderness ; would  frequently  relate  little 
fictitious  and  embellished  anecdotes  of  her  own  youth,  in  which  she 
said  she  had  suffered  the  rnost  exquisite  misery,  from  an  unfortunate 
entanglement;  would  then  advert  to  Lord  Mortimer;  express  her 
wonder  at  his  precipitate  departure,  and  her  admiration  of  his  virtues, 
declaring,  if  ever  Lady  Euphrasia  gained  his  heart,  which  she  much 
doubted,  she  must  be  considered  as  one  of  the  most  fortunate  of 
women. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  2^*5 

» 

Delicacy  sealed  the  lips  of  Amanda,  and  guarded  her  secret.  She 
Delieved  her  passion  to  he  hopeless,  and  felt  that  to  he  offered  conso* 
lation  on  such  a subject,  would,  to  her  feelings,  he  truly  humiliating. 
But  though  she  could  command  her  words,  she  could  not  her  feelings, 
and  they  were  visibly  expressed  in  her  countenance;  she  blushed 
whenever  Lord  Mortimer  was  mentioned;  looked  shocked  if  an 
union  between  him  and  Lady  Euphrasia  was  hinted  at ; and  smiled 
if  a probability  was  suggested  of  its  never  taking  place. — ^Lady  Grey- 
stock  at  last  relinquished  her  attempts  at  betraying  Amanda  into  a 
confession  of  her  sentiments : indeed,  she  thought  such  a confession 
not  very  requisite,  as  her  countenance  pretty  clearly  developed  what 
they  were;  and  she  deemed  herself  authorised  to  inform  the  mar- 
chioness, that  she  was  sure  something  had  passed  between  Lord 
Mortimer  and  Amanda,  though  what  she  could  not  discover,  from 
the  circumspection  of  the  latter.  The  marchioness  was  enraged,  and 
more  determined  than  ever  on  involving  Amanda  in  destruction,  if 
Lord  Mortimer  hesitated  a moment  in  obeying  the  wishes  of  his 
father,  by  uniting  himself  to  Lady  Euphrasia. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


And  to  be  plain,  *tis  not  your  person 
My  stomach’s  set  so  sharp  and  fierce  on ; 

But  ’tis  yom*  better  part,  your  riches, 

That  my  enamour’d  heart  bewitches. 

Hudibras. 

A MONTH  after  the  departure  of  Lord  Mortimer,  the  Eosline  family 
left  Ulster  Lodge.  Amanda  sighed  as  she  saw  them  pass,  at  the  idea 
of  the  approaching  meeting,  which  might,  perhaps,  soon  be  followed 
by  an  event  that  would  render  her  fond  remembrance  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer improper.  Many  of  the  families  about  the  castle  were  already 
gone  to  town  for  the  winter.  Those  who  remained  in  the  country 
till  after  Christmas,  among  whom  were  the  Xilcorbans,  had  sc 
entirely  neglected  Amanda,  from  the  time  the  marchioness  arrived  in 
the  neighbourhood,  that  they  could  not  think  of  renewing  their  visits 


206 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


confident  as  they  were,  from  the  proper  dignity  of  her  and  Fitzalan^s 
manner,  that  they  would  be  unwelcome. 

The  weather  was  now  often  too  severe  to  permit  Amanda  to  take 
ber  usual  rambles ; and  the  solitude  of  the  castle  was  heightened  by 
her  own  melanchol^ideas,  as  well  as  by  the  dreariness  of  the  season. 
No  more  the  magicftand  of  hope  sketched  scenes  of  flattering  bright- 
ness, to  dissipate  the  gloominess  of  the  present  ones.  The  prospects 
of  Amanda’s  heart  were  as  dreary,  as  desolate,  as  those  she  viewed 
from  the  windows  of  the  castle.  Her  usual  avocations  no  longer 
yielded  delight ; every  idea,  every  occupation,  was  embittered  by  the 
reflection  of  being  lessened  in  the  estimation  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Her 
health  declined  with  her  peace,  and  again  Fitzalan  had  the  anguish  of 
seeing  sorrow  nipping  his  lovely  blossom ; the  rose  forsook  her  cheek, 
and  her  form  assumed  a fragile  delicacy,  which  threatened  the  demoli- 
tion of  his  earthly  happiness.  He  was  not  ignorant  of  the  cause  of 
her  dejection,  but  he  would  not  shock  her  feelings  by  hinting  it. 
Every  effort  which  tenderness  could  suggest,  he  essayed  to  cheer  her, 
but  without  any  durable  eftect;  for  though  she  smiled  when  he 
expressed  a wish  to  see  her  cheerful,  it  was  a smile  transient  as  the 
gleaming  of  a wintry  sun,  and  which  only  rendered  the  succeeding 
gloom  more  conspicuous. 

At  this  period  of  distress.  Lady  Greystock,  who  continued  her  vis- 
its to  the  castle,  made  a proposal  which  Fitzalan  eagerly  embraced : 
this  was  to  take  Amanda  with  her  to  London,  whither  she  was  obliged 
to  go  directly,  about  a lav/-suit  carrying  on  between  her  and  the 
nephew  of  her  late  husband. 

Change  of  scene,  Fitzalan  trusted,  would  remove  from  Amanda’s 
mind  the  dejection  which  oppressed  it,  and  consequently  aid  the 
restoration  of  her  health.  Of  Lord  Mortimer’s  renewing  his  addresses, 
he  had  not  the  slightest  apprehension,  as  he  neglected  the  opportuni- 
ties he  might  have  had  in  the  country  for  such  a purpose.  Fitzalan, 
it  may  be  remembered,  knew  not  that  his  lordship  had  ever  deviated 
from  his  indifference,  and  he  believed  it  occasioned  by  a transfer  of 
his  aflections  to  Lady  Euphrasia ; he  was  also  ignorant  of  the  great 
intimacy  between  the  Eosline  family  and  Lady  Greystock,  and  conse- 
quently of  the  probability  there  was,  from  such  an  intimacy,  of 
Amanda’s  being  often  in  tlie  way  of  Lord  Mortimer.  If  she  met  him, 
be  was  confident  it  would  be  as  the  husband,  or  favour(*d  lover  of 


207 


OIIILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 

Lady  Eu^'Iirasia;  and  in  eitlier  of  these  characters,  he  "Was  certian, 
i'roin  the  rectitude  and  purity  of  her  principles,  she  would  he  more 
than  ever  impressed  with  the  necessity  of  conquering  her  attachment ; 
wnilst  the  pain  attending  such  a conversation  would  be  lessened,  and 
probably  soon  removed  by  surrounding  objects,  and  the  gay  scenes 
she  must  engage  in,  from  being  the  company  of  Lady  Greystock,  who 
had  a numerous  and  elegant  acquaintance  in  Londjip. 

Her  ladyship  appeared  to  him,  as  she  did  to  m^ly  others,  a pleas- 
ing, rational  woman ; one  to  whose  care  his  heart’s  best  treasure 
might  safely  be  consigned. — He  was  induced  to  accept  her  protection 
for  his  Amanda,  not  only  on  account  of  her  present  but  futm’e  welfare. 
His  own  health  was  extremely  delicate ; he  deemed  his  life  very  pre- 
carious ; and  flattered  himself  Lady  Greystock,  by  having  his  beloved 
girl  under  her  care,  would  grow  so  attached  to  her,  as  to  prove  a 
friend  if  he  should  be  snatched  away,  ere  his  newly  obtained  indepen- 
dence enabled  him  to  make  a provision  for  her : in  indulging  this  hope, 
his  heart  could  not  reproach  him  for  anything  mean  or 'selfish.  Her 
.ladyship  had  frequently  assured  him  all  her  relations  were  very  distant 
ones,  and  in  affluent  circumstances,  so  that  if  his  Amanda  received 
any  proof  of  kindness  from  her,  she  could  neither  injure  nor  encroach 
on  the  rights  of  others.  ••  - 

This,  however,  was  not  the  case,  though  carefully  concealed  from 
him,  as  well  as  many  others,  by  her  ladyship.  Her  education  had 
either  given  birth  to,  or  strengthened  the  artful  propensities  of  her 
disposition.  She  had  been  one  of  the  numerous  offspring  of  a gentle- 
man in  the  southern  part  of  Ireland,  whose  wife,  a complete  house- 
wife, knowing  his  inability  of  giving  his  daughters  fortunes,  deter- 
mined to  bring  them  up  so  as  to  save  one  for  their  future  husbands. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen.  Miss  Bridget,  by  her  reputation  for  domes*- 
tic  cleverness,  attracted  the  notice  of  a man  of  easy  independence  in 
the  neighbourhood,  who,  being  a perfect  Himrod,  wanted  somebody 
to  manage  those  concerns  at  home,  which  he  neglected  for  the  fields 
and  kennel ; and  in  obtaining  Miss  Bridget,  he  procured  this  valuable 
acquisition.  His  love  of  sport,  with  his  life,  was  fatally  terminated 
the  second  year  of  his  marriage,  by  his  attempting  to  leap  a five-bar 
gate.  A good  jointure  devolved  to  his  widow,  and  the  office  of  con* 
soling  her  to  the  rector  of  the  parish,  a little  fat  elderly  man,  who 
might  have  sat  very  well  for  the  picture  of  Boniface  So  successful 


208 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


were  liis  arguments,  that  he  not  only  expelled  sorrow  fr.sui  licr  heart 
but  introduced  himself  into  it,  and  had  the  felicity  of  receiving  her 
hand,  as  soon  as  her  weeds  were  laid  aside.  Four  years  they  had 
lived  in  uninterrupted  peace  ; but  too  free  an  enjoyment  of  the  gooa 
things  of  this  life  undermined  the  constitution  of  the  rector : he  was 
ordered  to  Bath,  where  his  mortal  career  was  shortly  terminated,  and 
his  whole  fortune  was  left  to  his  wife. 

In  the  house  where  she  lodged  was  an  ancient  baronet,  who  had 
never  been  married  ; his  fortune  was  considerable,  but  his  manner  so 
strange  and  whimsical,  that  L a appeared  incapable  of  enjoying  th  ^ 
advantages  it  would  have  afforded  to  others.  ISTot withstanding  his 
oddities,  he  was  compassionate ; and  as  the  fair  relict  was  unaccom- 
panied by  a friend,  he  waited  on  her  for  the  purpose  of  offering  conso- 
lation, and  any  service  in  his  power.  This  intention  instantly  inspired 
her  with  an  idea  of  trying  to  make  him  feel  tenderer  sentiments  than 
those  of  pity  for  her.  His  title  and  fortune  were  so  attractive,  that 
neither  his  capricious  disposition,  nor  the  disparity  of  their  ages,  ho 
being  sixty,  and  she  only  eight  and  twenty,  could  prevent  her  ardently 
desiring  a connexion  between  them.  Her  efforts  to  effect  this  were 
long  unsuccessful : but  perseverance  will  almost  woik  miracles : her 
constant  good  humour,  and  unremitted  solicitude  about  him,  who 
was  in  general  an  invalid,  at  last  made  an  impression,  on  his  flinty 
heart,  and,  in  a sudden  fit  of  gratitude,  he  offered  her  his  hand,  which 
was  eagerly  accepted. 

Th>5  presumptive  heir  to  the  baronet’s  large  possessions  was  tho 
son  and  only  child  of  a deceased  sister.  At  the  period  this  unex- 
pected alliance  took  place,  he  was  about  twenty,  pleasing  in  Lis 
person,  and  engaging  in  his  manner,  and  tenderly  beloved  by  his 
uncle.  This  love.  Lady  Greystock  saw,  if  it  continued,  would  frus- 
trate her  wish  of  possessing  the  baronet’s  whole  property.  Various 
schemes  fluctuated  in  her  mind,  relative  to  the  manner  in  which  she 
could  lay  the  foundation  for  Kushbrook’s  ruin ; ere  she  could  deter- 
mine on  one,  chance  discovered  a secret,,  which  completely  aided  her 
intention. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  the  baronet’s  country  residence,  Kush- 
brook  had  formed  an  attachment  for  the  daughter  of  a man,  against 
whom  his  uncle  eutertained  tlie  most  inveterate  enmity.  An  union 
with  this  girl,  sho  was  well  convinced,  would  ruin  him.  She  thojre- 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


209 


\ 


fore  gi^ve  him  to  nnderstaiid  she  knew  of  his  attachment,  and 
sincerely  pitied  his  situation ; encouraged  his  love  by  the  most  flatter 
ing  eulogiums  on  his  adored  Emily;  declared  her  regret  that  hearts 
so  congenial  should  he  separated ; and  at  last  intimated,  that  if  they 
wished  to  unite,  she  was  convinced  she  would  soon  be  able  to  obtain 
Sir  Geoffry’s  forgiveness  for  such  a step.  Her  artful  insinuations 
hurried  the  unsuspicious  pair  into  the  snare  she  had  spread  for  them ; 
the  consequence  of  this  was  what  she  expected. 

Sir  Geoffry’s  rage  was  unappeasable,  and  he  solemnly  vowed  never 
more  to  behold  his  nephew.  Lady  Greystock  wished  to  preserve,  if 
possible,  appearances  to  the  world,  and  prevailed  on  him  to  give  her 
five  hundred  pounds  for  Rushbrook,  to  which  she  added  five  of  her . 
own,  and  presented  the  notes  to  him,  with  an  assurance  of  pleading 
his  cause  whenever  she  found  a favourable  opportunity  of  doing  so. 

He  purchased  an  ensigncy  in  a regiment  on  the  point  of  embarking 
for  America,  where  he  felt  he  would  rather  encounter  distress,  than 
among  those  who  had  known  him  in  affluence. 

Her  ladyship  now  redoubled  her  attention  to  Sir  Geoffry,  and  at 
last  prepossessed  him  so  strongly  with  the  idea  of  her  aflections  for 
him,  that  he  made  a will  bequeathing  her  his  whole  fortune,  which 
she  flattered  herself  with  soon  enjoying.  But  tie  constitution  of  Sir 
Geoffry  was  stronger  than  she  imagined,  and  policy  obliged  her  to 
adhere  to  a conduct  which  had  gained  his  favour,  as  she  knew  the 
least  alteration  in  it  would,  to  his  capricious  temper,  be  sufiicient  tc 
make  him  crush  all  her  hopes. 

Fifteen  years  passed  in  this  manner,  when  a friend  of  RushbrcokY 
advised  him  no  longer  to  be  deluded  by  the  promises  Lady  Greystock 
still  continued  to  make  of  interceding  in  his  favour,  but  to  write  hin]- 
self  to  his  uncle  for  forgiveness,  which  the  duty  he  owed  his  family, 
and  the  distress  of  his  situation  should  prompt  him  to  immediately. 
Rushbrook  accordingly  wrote  a most  pathetic  letter,  and  his  friend, 
as  he  had  promised,  delivered  it  hims Jf  to  the  baronet  The  con- 
tents of  the  letter  and  tlie  remonstrance  of  his  visitor  produced  a 
great  change  in  the  sentiments  of  the  baronet.  Tenderness  for  a 
nephew  he  had  adopted  as  his  heir  from  his  infancy,  began  to  revive, 
and  he  seriously  reflected  that  by  leaving  his  fortune  to  Lady  Grey 
stock  he  should  enrich  a family  unconnected  with  him,  whilst  the  last 
branch  of  his  own  was  left  to  obscurity  and  wretchedness.  Pride 


^10 


OHILDBEN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


recoUed  from  sucli  an  idea,  and  lie  told  the  gentleman  he  would  con* 
sider  about  a reconciliation  with  his  nephew. 

The  conversation  between  them,  which  Lady  Greystock  had  con- 
trived to  overhear,  filled  her  with  dismay : but  this  was  increased 
almost  to  distraction,  when  an  attorney  being  sent  for,  slie  repaired 
again  to  her  hiding-place,  and  heard  a new  will  dictated  entirely  in 
Rushbrook’s  favour. 

Sir  Geoffry  was  soon  prevailed  on  to  see  his  nephew,  but  Mrs. 
Rushbrook  and  the  children  were  not  suffered  to  appear  before  him : 
they  were,  however,  supplied  with  every  requisite  for  making  a gen- 
teel appearance,  and  accompanying  the  regiment  (again  ordered 
abroad)  with  comfort. 

Soon  after  their  departure.  Sir  Geoffry  sunk  into  a state  of  insensi- 
bility, from  v/hich  no  hopes  of  his  ever  recovering  could  be  entertained. 
The  situation  was  propitious  to  the  designs  of  Lady  Greystock : none 
but  creatures  of  her  own  were  admitted  to  his  chamber. — An  attor- 
ney was  sent  for,  who  had  often  transacted  business  for  her,  relative 
to  her  affairs  in  Ireland ; and  a good  bribe  easily  prevailed  on  him  to 
draw  up  a will  she  dictated,  similar  to  that  before  made  in  her 
favour.  The  baronet  was  raised  in  her  arms,  whilst  the  attorney 
guided  his  almost  lifeless  hand  in  signing  it ; and  two  clerks  set  their 
names  as  witnesses.  Sir  Geoffry  expired  almost  immediately  after 
this  scheme  was  executed. 

Rushbrook’s  friend,  who  had  been  appointed  to  act  for  him,  if 
this  event  took  place  ^while  he  was  abroad,  now  appeared.  A will 
found  in  Sir  Geoffry’s  cabinet  was  read,  by  which  it  appeared  Mr. 
Rushbrook  -was  his  sole  heir.  The  exultation  of  the  peruser,  iiow- 
ever,  was  of  short  continuance;  her  ladyship’s  attorney  appeared, 
and  declared  the  will  was  rendered  null,  by  one  of  later  date,  wdiich, 
he  had  drawm  up  in  Sir  Geoffry’s  last  moments  by  his  express 
desire.  Consternation  and  surprise  pervaded  the  mind  of  Rush- 
brook’s friend ; he  saw  the  will  was  too  well  attested  for  him  to  dis- 
pute it ; yet  he  suspected  foul  play,  and  lost  no  time  in  communi- 
cating his  suspicion  to  Rushbrook. 

Her  ladyship  settled  her  affairs  most  expeditiously,  and  returned 
with  delight  to  her  native  country,  after  a very  long  absence  from  it 
Most  of  her  near  relations  were  dead,  but  she  had  many  distant  ones, 
who  nrompted  by  the  knowledge  of  her  large  fortune,  eagcTly 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


211 


reminded  her  of  their  affinity,  and  vied  with  each  other  in  paying  her 
attention.  This  was  extremely  pleasing  to  her  ladyship,  who  was 
fond  of  pleasure  at  other  people’s  expense.  For  herself,  she  had  laid 
down  rules  of  the  most  rigid  economy,  which  she  strictly  adhered  to. 
From  the  many  invitations  she  received,  she  was  seldom  a resident 
in  her  own  house  : she  judged  of  others  by  herself,  and  ascribed  the 
attentions  she  received  to  their  real  source,  seif  interest,  which  she 
laughed  secretly  to  think  she  should  disappoint. 

She  was  remarkable  (as  Miss  Kilcorban  informed  Amanda)  for  ask- 
ing young  people  to  do  little  matters  for  her,  such  as  making  lier 
milhnery,  working  ruffles,  aprons  and  handkerchiefs. 

The  tranquillity  she  enjoyed  for  two  years  after  Sir  Geoffry’s  death, 
was  a little  interrupted  by  his  nephew’s  arriving^rom  America,  and 
commencing  a suit  directly  against  her,  by  the  advice  of  his  friends 
and  some  eminent  lawyers,  on  the  supposition  that  the  will,  by  wfflich 
she  inherited,  had  been  made  when  his  uncle  was  in  a state  of  imbe- 
cility. 

Lady  Greystock,  however,  received  but  a trifling  shock  from  this ; 
she  knew  he  had  no  money  to  carry  on  such  an  affair,  and  that  his 
advocates  would  lose  their  zeal  in  his  cause  when  convinced  of  the 
state  of  his  finances.  On  being  obliged  to  go  to  London  to  attend  the 
suit,  it  immediately  occurred  that  Amanda  would  be  a most  pleasing 
companion  to  take  along  wdth  her,  as  she  vfould  not  only  enliven  the 
hours  she  must  sometimes  pass  at  home,  but  do  a number  of  little 
things  in  the  way  of  dress,  which  would  save  a great  deal  of  expense. 

Amanda,  on  the  first  proposal  of  accompanying  her,  warmly 
opposed  it:  she  felt  unutterable  reluctance  to  leave  her  father,  and 
assured  him  she  would,  by  exerting  herself,  prove  that  a change  of 
scene  was  not  requisite  for  restoring  her  cheerfulness.  Fitzalan 
knew  her  sincerity  in  making  this  promise,  but  he  also  knew  her 
inability  of  pe 'forming  it;  his  happiness  he  declared  depended  on 
her  complying  with  his  request:  he  even  said  his  own  health  would 
probably  be  established  by  it,  and  during  her  absence  he  would  partake 
of  the  amusements  of  the  country  which  he  had  hitherto  declined  on 
her  account.  This  assertion  prevailed  on  her  to  consent,  and  immedi- 
ate preparations  were  made  for  her  journey,  as  the  invitation  had  not 
been  given  till  within  a few  days  of  her  ladyship’s  intended  depar- 
ture. As  she  went  to  Holyhead,  Fitzalan  determined  orf  sending 


212 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY. 


Ellen  to  her  parents,  till  Amanda  returned  from  England,  which 
determination  pleased  Ellen  exceedingly,  as  she  longed  to  see  her 
family,  and  tell  them  particulars  of  Chip.  As  the  hour  approached 
for  quitting  her  father,  the  regret  and  reluctance  of  Am^anda 
increased : nor  were  his  feelings  less  oppressive,  though  better  con- 
cealed : hut  when  the  moment  of  parting  came,  they  could  no  longer 
be  supprest ; he  held  her  with  a tremulous  grasp  to  his  heart,  as  if 
jife  would  forsake  it.  On  her  departure,  the  gloom  on  his  mind 
seemed  like  a presentiment  of  evil;  he  repented  forcing  her  from 
him,  and  scarcely  could  he  refrain  from  saying  they  must  not  part. 

Lady  Greystock,  who  in  every  scene,  and  every  situation,  preserved 
her  composure,  hinted  to  him  the  injury  he  was  doing  his  daughter 
bj  such  emotions,  and  mentioned  how  short  their  separation  would 
be,  and  what  benefits  would  accrue  to  Amanda  from  it. 

This  last  consideration  recalled  to  his  mind  instantly  composed  him, 
and  he  handed  them  to  her  ladyship’s  chariot,  which  was  foUowed 
by  a hired  chaise,  containing  her  woman  and  Ellen;  he  then  sighing 
her  a last  adieu,  returned  to  his  solitary  habitation  to  pray,  and  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts,  weep  for  his  darling  child. 

Amanda’s  tears  streamed  down  her  pale  cheeks,  and  never  did  she 
experience  a pang  of  such  sorrow  as  that  she  felt  when,  the  chaise 
descending  a hill,  she  caught  the  last  glimpse  of  Castle  Carberry. 

She  perceived,  however,,  that  her  ladyship  had  no  relish  for  a 
gloomy  companion,  and  therefore  endeavoured  to  recover  her  spirit;^ 
and  enter  into  conversation. 

Lady  Greystock  had  a number  of  friends  in  that  part  of  Ireland^ 
and  therefore  never  stopt  at  an  inn. 

“ I always,  my  dear,”  said  she  to  Amanda,  “ make  use  of  the  friend^ 
ship  professed  for  me,  and  thus  endeavour  to  render  the  great  road  of 
life  delightful.” 

They  arrived  the  third  day  in  Sack vi lie-street,  where  ber  ladyship 
had  a house,  and  two  days  after  embarked  for  Engl  an  i.  They  slop  5 
the  first  night  they  landed  at  Holyhead,  and  the  n§xt  morning  pur- 
sued their  journey. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


213 


CRAFTEU  XXIY. 

A song,  a flower,  a name,  at  once  restore 
Those  long  connected  scenes  when  first  they  mov’d 
Th’  attention 

Akensids. 

The  dejection  of  Amanda  gradually  declined,  as  tlie  idea  of  seeing 
Lord  Mortimer  again  revived.  It  revived  not,  however,  without 
hopes,  fears,  and  agitations.  Sometimes  she  imagined  she  should 
find  him  devoted  to  Lady  Euphrasia then  again  believed  his  honour 
and  sincerity  would  not  allow  him  to  give  her  up  so  suddenly,  and 
that  his  apparent  indifference  proceeded  from  resentment,  which 
would  vanish  if  an  opportunity  once  offered  (and  she  trusted  there 
would)  for  explaining  her  conduct.  She  endeavoured  to  calm  the 
emotions  these  ideas  gave  rise  to,  by  reflecting  that  a short  time  now 
would  most  probably  terminate  her  suspense. 

They  stopped  for  the  night,  about  five  o’clock,  at  an  inn  about  a 
mile  from  Tudor  Hall.  After  dinner  Amanda  informed  Lady  Grey- 
stock,  she  wished  to  accompany  Ellen  to  her  parents.  To  this  her 
ladyship  made  no  objection,  on  finding  she  did  not  want  the  carriage. 
She  charged  her,  however,  not  to  forget  the  hour  of  tea,  by  which 
time  she  would  be  refreshed  by  a nap,  and  ready  to  engage  her  at  a 
game  of  piquet. 

They  set  out  unattended,  as  Ellen  refused  the  hostler’s  offer  of 
carrying  her  portmanteau,  saying,  she  would  send  for  it  the  next 
day.”  This  she  did  by  Amanda’s  desire,  who  wished,  unobserved, 
to  pursue  a walk,  in  which  she  promised  herself  a melancholy 
indulgence,  from  reviewing  the  well-known  scenes  endeared  by 
te  rder  Recollections. 

A mournful  yet  not  undelightful  sensation  attends  the  contempla- 
tion of  scenes  where  we  once  enjoyed  felicity : departed  joys  are  ever 
remembered  with  an  enthusiasm  of  tenderness,  which  soothes  the 
sorrows  we  experience  for  their  loss. 

Such  were  the  present  feelings  of  Amanda ; while  Ellen,  undis- 
tiur]>ed  by  regrets  for  the  past,  pointed  out,  with  pleasure,  the'  dwell 


214 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ings  of  lier  intimates  and  friends.  Yet  when  she  came  to  Chip^s 
deserted  cottage,  she  stopped,  and  a tear  stole  from  her  eye,  accompa- 
nied at  the  same  time  by  a smile,  which  seemed  to  say,  though  thou 
art  now  lonely  and  cheerless,  the  period  is  approaching  when  ( omfor^ 
and  gaiety  shall  resume  their  stations  within  thee,  when  the  blaze  of 
thy  fire  and  thy  taper  shall  not  only  diffuse  cheerfulness  within,  bffv 
without,  and  give  a ray  to  the  desolate  or  benighted  traveller,  ti 
guide  him  to  thy  hospitable  shell^er. 

Amanda,  leaning  on  Ellen’s  arm,  proceeded  slowly  in  her  walk ; 
the  evening  was  delightful ; the  blue  vault  of  heaven  w^as  spangled 
with  stars,  and  the  air  without  being  severely  cold,  was  clear  and 
refreshing.  The  road,  on  one  side,  was  skirted  with  the  high  woods 
of  Tudor  nail.  Amanda  gazed  on  them  with  emotion:  but  when 
she  came  to  the  gate  wliich  Lord  Mortin.er  had  opened  for  her 
departure  at  the  first  interview,  the  softness  of  her  heart  could  no 
longer  be  resisted ; she  stopped,  leaned  pensively  upon  it  and  wept. 
The  evergreens  with  which  the  woods  abounded,  prevented  theii 
wearing  a desolate  appearance:  she  v/ished  to  have  pierced  into  their 
most  sequestered  gloom,  but  she  had  no  time  to  indulge  this  wish : 
nor  did  she  indeed  believe  her  companion,  who  was  tinctured  with 
superstitious  fears,  would  have  accompanied  her.  “When  the  glow 
of  vegetation  again  revives,”  said  she  to  herself,  “ when  the  blossoms 
and  the  flowers  again  spread  their  spangled  foliage  to  the  sun^  and 
every  shade  resounds  with  harmony,  where,  alas ! will  Amanda  be  ? 
Ear  distant  in  all  probability,  from  these  delightful  scenes,  perhaps 
neglected  and  forgotten  by  their  master.” 

The  awful  murmurs  of  the  wind,  rustling  through  the  trees,  jo'ned 
to  the  solemn  sound  of  a neighbouring  water-fail,  began  to  eycite 
fears  in  Ellen’s  breast.  She  laid  her  trembling  hand  on  Amanda,  and 
besought  her  for  the  love  of  Cot,  to  hasten  to  the  cottage.  The  road 
still  wound  round  the  wood,  and  lights  from  a small  village,  which 
jay  on  its  borders,  cast  various  shadows  upon  the  trees,  whilst  the 
hum  of  distant  voices  floated  upon  the  gale,  and  fancy  pictured  joyous 
groups  of  rustics  assembling  round  their  fires,  to  enjoy  refreshrcent 
after  the  labours  of  the  day. 

“ Peaceful  peoffle,”  said  Amanda,  “ when  the  wants  of  nature  are 
satisfied,  no  care  or  trouble  obtrudes  upon  your  mind  : tired . but  not 
exhausted,  with  the  toils  of  the  day,  witn  preparing  the  bosom  of  tho 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


215 


earth  for  the  ethereal  mildness  of  the  spring,  yon  seek  and  enjoy  a 
calm  repose.” 

In  the  lane  which  led  to  her  nurse’s  cottage,  Amanda  paused  for  a 
moment ; down  this  lane  Lord  Mortimer  had  once  pursued  her ; she 
looked  towards  the  mansion  of  Tudor  Hail ; she  endeavoured  to  dis- 
cern the  library,  but  all  was  dark  and  dismal,  except  the  wing  which 
Ellen  in/ormed  her  was  occupied  by  the  domestics. — Through  the 
window  of  Edwin’s  cottage,  they  saw  all  the  family  seated  round 
a blazing  fire,  chatting  and  laughing.  The  transports  of  Ellen’s  heart 
overcame  every  idea  of  caution : she  hastily  unlatched  the  door,  and 
flung  herself  into  her  parents’  arms ; their  surprise  and  joy  was 
unbounded,  and  Amanda  was  received  and  welcomed  with  as  much 
tenderness  as  their  child,  without  ever  asking  the  reason  of  their 
sudden  appearance.  The  first  question  was,  “Would  she  not  stay 
with  them  ?”  and  her  answer  filled  them  with  regret  and  disappoint- 
ment. Perceiving  them  about  procuring  her  refreshments,  “she 
declared  she  had  not  a minute  to  stay : the  time  allotted  for  her  walk 
was  already  exceeded,  and  she  feared  Lady  Greystock  would  be 
ofiended  at  being  left  so  long  at  an  inn  by  herself;”  she  therefore 
liastily  presented  some  little  presents  she  had  brought  for  the  family, 
and  was  bidding  them  farewell,  when  poor  Ellen,  who,  from  so  long 
residiog  with  the  young  lady,  almost  adored  her,  suddenly  flung  her- 
self in  to  her  arms,  and  clinging  round  her  neck,  as  if  to  prevent  a 
separation,  which,  till  the  moment  of  its  arrival,  she  thought  she 
could  have  supported,  exclaimed,  “ Oh,  my  tear  young  laty,  we  are 
going  to  part,  and  my  heart  sinks  within  me  at  the  idea ; even  Chip 
himself,  if  he  was  here,  could  not  console  me.  I know  you  are  not 
happy  and  that  increases  my  sorrow ; your  sweet  cheek  is  pale,  and  I 
have  often  seen  you  cry,  when  you  thought  no  poty  was  minding 
you ; if  you,  who  are  so  goot,  are  not  happy,  how  can  a peing  like  me 
Lope  to  pe  so.  Oh  may  I soon  pe  plest  with  seeing  you  return  the 
mistress  of  Tudor  Hall,  married  to  the  sweetest  handsomest  noble- 
man— who  I know  in  my  soul  loves  you,  as  well  inteed  he  may,  for 
wheie  whould  he  see  the  fellow  of  my  young  laty.  Then  Chip  and  I 
will  1/e  so  happy,  for  I am  sure  you  and  my  lort  will  shelter  our  lium- 
ble  cottage.” 

Amanda  prest  the  affectionate  girl  to  her  breast,  and  mingled  tears 
with  hors,  v/hile  she  softly  whispered  to  her  not  to  hint  at  such 


210 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


an  event ; but,  be  assured,  my  dearest  Ellen,”  continu(;d  sbe,  that 
I shall  ever  rejoice  at  your  felicity,  which  to  the  utmost  of  my  pow- 
er I would  promote,  and  hope  soon  to  hear  of  your  union  with 
Chip.” 

“Alack  a tay,”  said  the  nurse,  “ are  you  going  away  when  I thought 
fou  come  to  stay  among  us ; and  then,  perhaps,  my  lort  would  have 
come,  and  then  there  would  have  peen  such  a happy  meeting ; why,  I 
verily  thought  he  would  have  gone  distracted  when  he  found  you,  as 
one  may  say,  run  away ; and  to  pe  sure  I did  pity  him,  and  should 
have  made  no  scruple  to  tell  him  where  you  were,  had  I known 
it  myself,  which  he  suspected,  for  he  offered  me  a sight  of  money  if  I 
would  discover.  Then  there  is  Parson  Howell,  why,  he  has  peen 
like  unto  nothing  put  a ghost  since  you  went  away ; and  he  does 
so  sigh — and  he  comes  almost  every  tay  to  ask  me  apout  you,  and 
whether  I think  or  know  Lort  Mortimer  is  with  you;  he  will  pe 
in  such  grief  to  think  you  were  here  without  his  seeing  you.” 

“Well,”  said  Amanda,  endeavouring  to  appear  cheerful,  “we  may 
all  yet  have  a happy  meeting.” 

She  then  repeated  her  farewell,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  old  Edwin, 
returned  to  the  inn,  where  she  again  bid  him  adieu,  and  hastening  to 
her  ladyship,  found  her  just  awaking  from  a comfortable  slumber. 
They  drank  tea,  and  after  playing  for  about  an  hour  at  ] iquet,  retired 
to  rest.  Amanda,  who  enjoyed  but  little  repose,  rose  early  an  the 
morning,  and  finding  her  ladyship  not  quite  ready,  went  down  into 
the  court  to  walk  about  till  she  was,  where,  to  her  great  surpiise,  the 
first  object  she  perceived  was  Howell,  leaning  pensively  against  a gate, 
opposite  the  house.  He  fiew  over,  and  catching  her  hand,  exclaimed — 

“You  are  surprised,  but,  I trust,  not  displeased.  I could  not  resist 
such  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you  once  more,  after  all  I have  suffered 
from  your  precipitate  journey,  and  the  probability  of  never  beholding 
you.  I have  been  watching  here,  in  expectation  of  this  happiness,  since 
the  first  dawn  of  day.” 

“I  am  sorry,”  said  Amanda,  gravely,  “your  time  was  so  ill 
employed.” 

“ How  coldly  you  speak,”  crieH  he ; “ ah ! could  you  read  my  heart, 
you  would  see  so  little  presumption  in  it,  that  you  would,  I am  confi 
dent,  pity,  though  you  could  not  relieve  its  feeling.  Every  spot  you 
loved  to  frequent,  I have  haunted  since  your  departure ; ycnir  mother's 


OniLDREN  OF  THE  ABCEr. 


217 


grave  has  often  been  the  ^cene  of  pensive  meditation ; ner  has  it  wanted 
its  vernal  offering;  the  loveliest  flowers  of  my  garden  I have  wove 
into  wreaths,  and  hung  them  o’er  it,  in  fond  remembrance  of  her  angel 
daughter.” 

The  plaintive  sound  of  Howell’s  voice,  the  dejection  of  his  counte- 
nance, excited  the  softest  feelings  of  sensibility  in  Amanda’s  bosom ; 
but  she  grew  confused  by  the  tendei^ness  of  his  expression,  and  saying 
she  was  happy  to  see  him.  tried  to  disengage  her  hand,  that  she  might 
retire. 

“ Surely,”  said  he,  still  detaining  it,  ‘‘  a few  moments  you  might  grant 
me  without  reluctance ; you  who  are  going  to  enjoy  every  happiness 
and  pleasure,  going  to  meet  the  favoured — ” 

Amanda  anticipated  the  name  he  was  about  uttering,  and  her  con- 
fusion redoubled.  She  attempted  again,  yet  in  vain,  to  withdraw  her 
hand,  and  turned  to  see  whether  any  one  was  observing  them ; how 
great  was  her  mortification  on  perceiving  Lady  Greystock  leaning 
from  a window  exactly  over  their  heads.  She  smiled  significantly  at 
Amanda,  on  being  seen,  and  the  carriage  being  ready,  said  she  would 
attend  her  below  stairs.”  Howell  now  relinquished  Amanda’s  hand ; 
he  saw  she  looked  displeased,  and  expressed  such  sorrow,  accompanied 
with  such  submissive  apologies  for  offending  her,  that  she  could  not 
avoid  according  him  her  pardon.  He  handed  both  her  and  Lady 
Greystock  into  the  carriage,  and  looked  a melancholy  adieu  as  it 
drove  off. 

“ Upon  my  word,  a pretty  smart  young  fellow,”  said  Lady  Grey- 
stock ; though  impatient  this  long  time  to  set  out,  I could  not  think 
of  interrupting  the  interesting  tete-a-tete  I saw  between  you  and  him. 
I suppose  you  have  been  a resident  in  this  part  of  the  country  before, 
from  your  seeming  to  know  this  tender  swain  so  well.” 

Amanda  wished  to  avoid  acknowledging  this ; if  known,  she  feared 
it  would  lead  to  a discovery,  or,  at  least,  excite  a suspicion  of  her 
intimacy  with  Lord  Mortimer,  which  she  was  desirous  of  concealing, 
while  in  this  uncertainty  concerning  him. 

“Your  ladyship  has  heard,  I believe,”  replied  she,  “that  Ellen’s 
mother  nursed  me.” 

“ Yes,  my  dear,”  answered  her  ladyship,  with  some  smartness ; “ but 
If  your  acquaintance  even  commenced  with  this  youth  in  infancy,  I 
fancy  it  has  been  renewed  since  that  period,” 

10 


^18 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEYi 


Amanda  bluslied  deeply,  and  to  bide  her  confusion,  pretended  to 
be  looking  at  the  prospect  from  the  window.  Lady  Greystock’s  eyes 
pursued  hers.  Tudor  Hall  was  conspicuous  from  the  road,  and  Aman  da 
involuntarily  sighed  as  she  viewed  it. 

That  is  a fine  domain,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “ I presume  you 
have  visited  it,  and  know  its  owner.” 

Amanda  could  not  assert  a falsehood ; neither  could  she  evade  the 
incpiiries  of  Lady  Greystock,  and  therefore,  not  only  confessed  its 
being  the  estate  of  Lord  Mortimer,  but  her  own  residence  near  it  the 
preceding  summer.  Her  ladyship  immediately  conjectured  it  was 
tlien  the  attachment  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer  commenced ; 
and  the  blushes,  the  hesitations,  and  the  unwillingness  of  Amanda  in 
owning  her  visit  to  Wales,  all  confirmed  this  conjecture.  She  tried, 
however,  to  insinuate  herself  into  her  full  confidence,  by  warm 
expressions  of  esteem,  and  by  hinting  that  from  the  disposition  of 
Lord  Mortimer,  she  could  not  believe  he  ever  did,  or  ever  would 
think  seriously  of  Lady  Euphrasia;  this  she  hoped  would  either 
induce  or  betray  Amanda  to  open  her  whole  heart,  but  she  was 
disappointed.  She  flattered  herself,  however,  with  thinking  she  had 
discovered  enough  to  satisfy  the  marchioness,  if  she  (as  Lady  Grey- 
stock feared  she  would)  expressed  any  disapprobation  at  seeing 
Amanda  her  companion;  she  intended  saving,  that  Fitzalan  had 
absolutely  forced  her  under  her  protection. 

They  arrived  late  in  the  evening  of  the  third  day  at  Pall  Mall, 
where  her  ladyship’s  agent  had  previo'Lily  taken  lodgings  for  them. 

Lady  Greystock,  though  immersed  in  business  against  the  approach- 
ing trial,  neglected  no  means  of  amusement ; and  the  day  after  her 
arrival  sent  a card  of  inquiry  to  the  Kosline  family,  as  the  most  eligi- 
ble mode  of  informing  them  of  it.  The  next  morning,  as  sho 
expected,  she  received  a visit  from  them.  Amanda  was  sitting  in 
the  window  when  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door ; she  instantly 
arose  and  left  the  room,  determined  neither  to  expose  herself  to  their 
impertinence,  nor  appear  solicitous  for  their  notice,  by  staying  in  their 
company  uninvited.  Lady  Greystock  soon  informed  them  of 
Amanda’s  having  accompanied  her  to  London;  and  tliey,  as  sho 
expected,  expressed  both  surprise  and  displeasure  at  it.  As  she  had 
settled  in  her  own  mind,  she  therefore  told  them,  “ that  Fitzalan  had 
urged  her  to  take  his  daughter  under  her  care,  with  entreaties  sho 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


219 


could  not  resist;  entreaties,”  she  added,  with  a significant  look,  ‘^she 
believed  he  had  good  reason  for  making.”  She  then  related  all  she 
siis})ected,  or  rather  had  discovered,  relative  to  the  attacnment 
between  Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda,  having  commenced  the  pre- 
ceding summer  in  Wales. 

The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  instantly  concluded  she  was 
sent  to  London  for  the  purpose  of  having  it  completed  by  a marriage. 
This,  however,  they  determined  to  prevent.  The  marchioness  felt 
the  most  inveterate  liatred  against  her,  and  also  that  to  prevent  her 
being  advantageously  settled,  even  if  that  settlement  threatened  not 
to  interfere,  with  the  one  she  had  projected  for  her  daughter,  she 
could  undertake  almost  any  project.  Though  she  abhorred  the  idea 
of  noticing  her,  yet  she  was  tempted  now  to  do  so,  from  the  idea 
that  i.t  would  better  enable  her  to  watch  her  actions.  This  idea  she 
communicated  in  a hasty  whisper  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  who  appro^'  ing 
of  it,  she  told  Lady  Greystock,  as  Miss  Eitzalan  was  her  guest,  she 
would,  on  that  account,  permit  her  to  be  introduced  to  them.” 
Amanda  was  accordingly  sent  for.  On  entering  the  room.  Lady 
Greystock  took  her  hand,  and  presented  her  to  the  marchioness  and 
Lady  Euphrasia.  The  former,  half  rising,  with  a coldness  she  c^uld 
pot  conquer,  said,  ‘‘Whenever  Lady  Greystock  honoured  her  wi*-'h  a 
visit,  she  should  he  happy  to  see  Miss  Eitzalan  along  with  her.”  The 
latter  only  noticed  her  by  a slight  how ; and  when  Amanda  drew  a 
chair  near  the  sofa  on  which  she  sat,  or  rather  inclined,  she  continued 
staring  in  her  face,  and  alternately  humming  an  Italian  air,  and 
caressing  a little  dog  she  had  brought  with  her.  The  unembarrassed 
elegance  of  Amanda’s  air  and  manner  surprised  and  mortified  them ; 
as  they  expected  to  have  seen  her  covered  with  confusion  at  an 
introduction  so  unexpected.  To  their  haughty  souls  nothing  was 
more  delightful  than  the  awe  and  deference  which  vulgar  and  illiberal 
minds  are  so  apt  to  pay  to  rank  and  fortune.  TJiey  were  provoked 
to  see  in  Amanda  conscious  dignity,  instead  of  trembling  diffidence. 
As  she  sat  by  Lady  Euplirasia,  the  marchioness  could  not  help 
secretly  confessing  she  was  a dangerous  rival  to  her  daughter ; for 
never  did  her  lovely  features  and  ingenuous  countenance  appear  to 
such  advantage,  as  when  contrasted  to  Lady  Euphrasia’s.  The  mar- 
chioness withdrew  soon  after  her  entrance,  unable  longer  to  restrain 
the  malignant  passions  which  envy  and  hatred  had  excited. 


220 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBES’. 


Rotl  she  and  Lady  Euphrasia  were  convinced  that  to  communicate 
their  suspicions  at  present  to  Lord  Oherhury,  about  her  and  his  son^ 
would  not  answer  the  end  proposed ; for  it  could  be  of  little  conse- 
quence, they  reflected,  to  withdraw  the  esteem  of  the  father,  if  that 
of  the  son  continued : who,  independent  in  his  notions,  and  certain 
of  the  fortunes  of  his  ancestors,  might  not  hesitate  to  gratify  himself. 
The  point  therefore  was,  by  some  deep  laid  scheme,  to  ruin  Amanda 
in  the  estimation  of  Lord  Mortimer ; and  if  in  the  power  of  mortals 
to  contrive  and  execute  such  a scheme,  they  gave  themselves  credit 
for  being  able  to  effect  it. 

The  blow  at  her  fond  hopes  they  resolved  should  be  followed  by 
one  against  the  peace  of  Fitzalan,  on  whom  they  knew,  whenever 
they  pleased,  they  could  draw  the  resentment  of  Lord  Cherbury; 
thus  should  they  completely  triumph  over  the  lovely  Amanda ; 
plunge  two  beings  they  detested  into  poverty  and  wretchedness; 
destroy  expectations  which  interfered  with  their  own,  and  secure  an 
alliance  with  a man  they  had  long  wished  to  unite  to  their  family. 

From  the  unaltered  indifference  of  Lord  Mortimer  to  Lady 
Euphrasia,  they  were  convinced  of  his  predilection  for  another. 
Flattering  themselves  that  nothing  but  a prior  attachment  could  have 
rendered  him  insensible  to  the  attractions  of  her  ladyship  ; to  render 
the  object  of  his  attachment  contemptible  in  his  sight,  they  believed, 
would  produce  the  transfer  of  affections  they  so  long  desired.  The 
haughty  soul  of  Lady  Euphrasia  would  never  have  permitted  her  to 
think  of  accepting  Lord  Mortimer  (after  his  neglect  of  her),  but  by  the 
opportunity  she  should  have  by  such  an  acceptance,  of  triumphing 
over  Amanda ; from  this  idea,  she  entered  warmly  into  all  her 
mother’s  plans. 

Lord  Cherbury  had  never  yet  spoken  explicitly  to  his  son  con- 
cerning the  union  he  had  projected  for  him ; he  often,  indeed,  dropped 
hints  about  it,  whicli  he  always  either  neglected,  or  purposely  mis- 
understood ; and  from  these  circumstances  was  pretty  sensible  of  the 
disinclination  Lord  Mortimer  felt  to  his  wishes  ; he  knew  he  enter- 
tained high  notions  of  the  independence  which  a rational  mind  h^s  a 
right  to  maintain,  and  that  in  an  aflair  of  such  consequence,  as 
Mortimer  frequently  said  he  considered  matrimonial  connection  to  be, 
he  would  neither  be  controlled  by  the  opinion  of  others,  nor  merely 
allured  by  the  advantage  of  fortune. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


221 


To  avoid  a disagreeaLle  argument  witli  a son  lie  not  only  loved  Imt 
respected,  lie  sought  rather,  by  indirect  means,  to  involve  him  in  an 
entanglement  with  the  Rosline  family,  tlian  come  to  an  open  explan- 
ation with  him.  For  this  purpose,  he  contrived  parties  as  often  as 
possible  with  them  into  public;  when,  by  Ix)rd  Mortimer’s  being 
seen  with  Lady  Euphrasia,  reports  might  be  raised  of  an  intended 
alliance  between  them ; reports  which  he,  himself,  propagated  among 
some  particular  friends,  with  a desire  of  having  them  circulated : 
but  an  injunction  of  secrecy  as  to  their  author;  these  reports  would, 
he  trusted,  on  reaching  Lord  Mortimer,  lead  to  a discussion  of  the 
affair ; and  then  he  meant  to  say  as  Lord  Mortimer  had  partly  con- 
tributed to  raise  them  himself,  by  his  attendance  on  Lady  Euphrasia, 
he  could  not  possibly,  with  honor,  recede  from  realizing  them : yet 
often  did  his  lordship  fear  his  scheme  would  prove  abortive ; for  well 
he  knew  the  cool  judgment  and  keen  penetration  of  his  son : this 
fear  always  inspired  him  with  horror,  for  he  had  a motive  for  desiring 
the  union  which  he  durst  not  avow. 

Lord  Mortimer  quickly  indeed  discerned  what  his  father’s  views 
were,  in  promoting  his  attendance  on  Lady  Euphrasia ; he  therefore 
avoided  her  society  whenever  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  wHhout 
absolute  rudeness ; and  contradicted  the  reports  he  almost  continually 
heard,  of  an  intended  alliance  between  them,  in  the  most  solemn 
manner:. he  had  always  disliked  her,  but  latterly  that  dislike  ^vas 
converted  into  hatred,  from  the  malevolence  of  her  conduct  towards 
Amanda ; and  he  felt,  that  even  were  his  heart  free,  he  never  cculd 
devote  his  to  her  or  give  his  hand  where  it  must  be  unaccompanied 
with  esteem;  he  wished  to  avoid  a disagreeable  conversation  with 
Lord  Cherbury,  and  flattered  him.self,  his  unalterable  indifference  to 
lier  ladyship  wmuld  at  length  convince  his  lordship  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  accomplishing  his  projected  scheme,  and  that  consequently 
it  would  be  dropped  ere  openly  avowed,  and  he  saved  the  painful 
necessity  of  absolutely  rejecting  a proposal  of  his  father. 

In  the  evening  Lady  Grey  stock  and  Amanda  received  cards  for 
dinner  the  next  day  at  the  Marquis  of  Rosline’s.  Amanda  made  no 
objection  to  this  invitation;  her  father  had  often  declared  if  the  rcar- 
chioness  made  an  overture  for  an  intimacy  with  his  children,  he 
v/ould  not  reject  it,  as  he  always  deemed  family  quarrels  highly  pre- 
judicial to  both  parties,  with  regard  to  the  opinion  of  the  world 


222 


CHILDREx^  OF  THE  ABBEl. 


besides,  had  he  objected  to  it,  she  should  either  have  been  a restraint 
on  Lady  Greystock,  or  left  to  total  solitude ; and  the  idea  also  stole 
upon  her  mind  that  she  should  lose  a chance  of  seeing  Lord  Mor- 
timer, who,  she  supposed,  was  a frequent  guest  of  the  marquis’s. 
Her  heart  fluttered  at  the  idea  of  soon  beholding  him ; and  the  bright 
glow  of  animation  which  overspread  her  countenance,  in  consequence 
of  this  idea,  attracted  the  observation  of  Lady  Greystock,  who  cou- 
gi*atulated  her  on  the  alteration  that  was  already  visible  in  her  looks, 
and  inferred  from  thence,  that  she  was  so  well  recovered  from  her 
fatigue,  as  to  be  able  to  contrive  a little  trimming  for  her  against  the 
next  day.  This  Amanda  cheerfully  undertook,  and  having  a quick 
execution,  as  well  as  an  elegant  taste,  she  soon  made  a progress  in  it, 
which  delighted  her  ladyship ; who,  to  divert  her  whilst  she  worked, 
related  some  of  the  many  entertaining  anecdotes  with  which  her 
memory  was  stored. 

. Though  Amanda  submitted  her  beautiful  hair  to  the  hands  of  a 
frizzier,  she  departed  not  from  the  elegant  simplicity  always  conspi- 
cuous in  her  dress  ; her  little  ornaments  were  all  arranged  with  taste, 
and  an  anxious  wish  of  appearing  to  advantage ; so  lovely  indeed  did 
she  appear  to  Lady  Greystock,  that  her  ladyship  began  seriously  to 
fear  that  she  should  not  be  forgiven  by  the  marchioness,  or  Lady 
Euphrasia,  for  having  introduced  such  an  object  to  their  parties. 

About  six  they  reached  Portman  Square,  and  found  a large  party 
assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  After  the  first  compliments  were 
over,  and  Amanda  introduced  to  the  marquis — not  indeed  as  a near 
relation,  but  an  utter  stranger;  a gentleman  stepped  up  to  the 
marchioness,  and  addressing  her  in  a low  voice,  was  immediately 
presented  by  her  to  Amanda,  as  the  Earl  of  Cherbury.  “ My  dear 
young  lady,”  said  he,  “ allow  me  to  express  the  pleasure  I feci  at 
seeing  the  daughter  of  my  worthy  friend,  Mr.  Fitzalan;  allow  me 
also  to  increase  that  pleasure,”  continued  he,  taking  her  hand  and 
leading  her  to  a very  lovely  girl,  who  sat  at  some  distance,  “ by  pre- 
senting Miss  Fitzalan  to  Lady  Araminta  Dormer,  and  desiring  their 
friendship  for  each  other.” 

Surprised  and  confused,  yet  delighted  by  notice  so  little  expected, 
the  heart  of  Amanda  heaved  with  emotion ; her  cheeks  mantled  with 
blushes,  and  the  tear  of  sensibility  trembled  in  her  eye : she  was  uot<, 
however,  so  embarrassed  as  to  bo  incapable  of  (3xpressicg 


CiilLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


223 


m'-knowledgment  to  liis  lordship  for  his  attention,  and  also  to  assure 
him,  she  had  early  been  taught,  and  sensibly  felt  the  claims  he  had 
upon  her  gratitude  and  respect.  He  bowed  as  if  to  prevent  a further 
mention  of  obligations,  and  left  her  seated  by  his  daughter,  who  had 
expressed  her  pleasure  at  being  introduced  to  her,  not  in  the  super- 
cilious style  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  but  in  the  sweet  accents  of  affability 
and  tenderness. 

The  conduct  of  Lorii  Cherbury  had  drawn  all  eyes  upon  Amanda : 
the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  regarded  her  with  peculiar 
malignancy;  the  idea,  however,  that  they  could,  whenever  they 
pleased,  deprive  her  of  his  notice,  a little  lessened  the  jealousy  and 
mortification  it  had  excited. 

“ Pray  who  is  this  little  creature  ?”  exclaimed  Miss  Malcolm  (who 
was  a relation  of  the  marquis’s,  and  from  being  extremely  ugly, 
extremely  rich,  and  extremely  ill-natured,  was  an  immense  favourito 
of  Lady  Euphrasia’s)  “ that  puts  one  in  mind  of  a country  miss,  on 
her  first  appearance  at  a country  assembly,  blushing  and  trembling  at 
every  eye  she  meets  ?” 

“ Some  kind  of  a far  off  relation  of  my  mother’s,”  replied  Lady 
Euphrasia,  “ wdiom  that  old  dowager  Lady  Grey  stock,  picked  up  in 
ihe  wilds  of  Ireland,  and  has  absolutely  forced  her  upon  our  notice ; 
though  I assure  you,  from  compassion,  we  sliould  have  taken  the 
poor  creature  long  ago  under  our  protection,  but  for  the  shocking 
conduct  of  her  family  to  the  marchioness,  and  the  symptoms  she  has 
already  betrayed  of  following  their  example : it  is  really  ridiculous 
sending  her  to  London — I dare  say  her  silly  old  father  has  exhausted 
all  his  ways  and  means  in  trying  to  render  her  decent  comforting 
himself,  no  doubt,  with  the  hope  of  her  entrapping  some  young  fool 
of  quality,  who  may  supply  his  Tvants  as  well  as  hers.” 

Ay,  I suppose  all  the  stock  in  the  farm  was  sold  to  dress  her  out,” 
cried  young  Freelove,  a little  trifling  fop,  who  leaned  on  the  back  of 
her  ladyship’s  chair;  he  was  a ward  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  and  his 
fortune  considerable,  but  nature  had  not  been  quite  as  bounteous  to 
him  as  the  blind  goddess  ; botli  his  mind  and  person  were  effeminat*? 
to  a degree  of  insignificance : all  he  aimed  at  was  being  a man  of 
fashion:  his  manners,  like  his  dress,  were  therefore  regulated  by  it, 
and  he  never  attempted  to  approve  of  any  thing,  or  any  creature,  till 
assured  they  were  quite  the  ton ; he  had  danced  attendance  for  some 


224 


DniLDREN  OF  TH^  ABBEY. 


time  on  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  she  encouraged  his  assiduities,  in  hopes 
of  effecting  a change  in  Lord  Mortimer’s  manner ; hut  had  his  loi’dship 
even  been  a passionate  lover,  poor  Freelove  was  not  calculated  to 
inspire  him  with  jealousy.  declare,”  continued  he,  surveying 
Amanda  through  an  opera  glass  which  dangled  from  his  button  hole, 
‘‘  if  her  father  has  nothing  to  support  him,  but  the  hope  of  her  making 
a conquest  of  importance,  he  will  be  in  a sad  way,  for  ’pon  my  soul, 
I can  see  nothing  the  girl  has  to  recommend  her,  except  novelty,  and 
that,  you  know,  is  a charn'  which  will  lessen  every  day : all  she  can 
possibly  expect  is  an  establishment  for  a few  months  with  some 
tasteless  being,  who  may  like  the  simplicity  of  her  country  look 

“ And  more  than  she  merits,”  exclaimed  Miss  Malcolm ; “I  have 
no  patience  with  such  creatures  forcing  themselves  into  society  quite 
above  them.” 

‘‘  I assure  you,”  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  you  would  be  astonished  at 
her  vanity  and  conceit,  if  you  knew  her : she  considers  herself  a first 
rate  beauty,  though  positively  any  one  may  see  she  is  quite  the  re- 
verse, and  pretends  to  the  greatest  gentleness  and  simplicity ; then 
she  has  made  some  strange  kind  of  people,  to  be  sure  they  must  be, 
believe  she  is  accomplished ; though  I dare  say,  if  she  can  read  toler- 
ably, and  scrawl  out  a decent  letter,  is  all  she  can  do.” 

“We  will  quiz  her  after  dinner,  about  her  accomplishments,”  said 
Ereelove,  “ and  have  a little  fun  with  her.” 

“Ay,  do,”  cried  Miss  Malcolm.  “We  will  ask  her  to  play  and 
sing,”  said  her  ladyship ; “ for  I assure  you  she  pretends  to  excel  in 
both ; though  from  her  father^s  poverty,  I am  certain  she  can  know 
little  of  either:  I sliall  enjoy  her  confusion  of  all  things,  when  her 
ignorance  is  detected.” 

While  .this  conversation  was  passing,  Amanda,  in  conversing  with 
Lady  Araminta,  experienced  the  purest  pleasure.  Her  ladyship  was 
the  “softened  image”  of  Lord  Mortimer;  her  voice  was  modulated 
to  the  same  harmony  as  his,  and  Amanda  gazed  and  listened  with 
rapture.  On  her  confusion  abating,  her  eye  had  wandered  round  the 
room  in  quest  of  his  lordship,  but  he  was  not  in  it.  At  every  stir 
near  the  door  her  heart  fluttered  at  the  idea  of  seeing  him  ; nor  was 
tlie  idea  relinquished,  till  summoned  to  dinner.  She  fortunately 
procured  a seat  next  Lady  Araminta,  which  prevented  her  thinking 
the  time  spent  at  dinner  tedious.  In  the  evening  the  rooms  were 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


225 


crowded  with  company,  but  Lord  Mortimer  appeared  not  among  the 
brilliant  assembly ; yet  the  pang  of  disappointment  was  softened  to 
Amanda  by  his  absence  intimating  that  he  was  not  anxious  for  the 
society  of  Lady  Euphrasia : — true,  business,  or  a prior  engagement, 
might  have  prevented  his  coming,  but  she,  as  is  natural,  fixed  on  the 
idea  most  flattering  to  herself. 

Lady  Euphrasia,  in  pursuance  of  the  plan  laid  against  Amanda,  led 
the  way  to  the  music-room,  attended  by  a large  party ; as  Freelove 
had  intimated  to  some  of  the  beaux  and  belles,  her  ladyship  and  he 
were  going  to  quiz  an  ignorant  Irish  country  girl.  Lady  Euphrasia 
sai  down  to  the  harpsichord,  that  she  might  have  a better  pretext  for 
asking  Amanda  to  play. — Freelove  seated  himself  by  the  latter,  and 
began  a conversation,  which  he  thought  would  effectually  embarrass 
her ; but  it  had  quite  a contrary  effect,  rendering  him  so  extremely 
ridiculous,  as  to  excite  a universal  laugh  at  his  expense.  Amanda 
perceived  his  intention  in  addressing  her,  and  also,  that  Lady 
Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  were  privy  to  it,  having  caught  the  sig- 
nificant looks  w^hich  passed  among  them.  Though  trembling  alive  to 
every  feeling  of  modesty,  she  had  too  much  sense,  and  real  nobleness 
of  soul,  to  allow  the  illiberal  sallies  of  impertinence  to  divest  her  of 
composure. 

“ Have  you  seen  any  of  the  curiosities  of  I ondon,  my  tear,” 
exclaimed  Freelove,  lolling  back  in  his  chair,  and  contemplating  the 
lustre  of  his  buckles,  unconscious  of  the  ridicule  he  excited. 

“ I think  I have,”  said  Amanda,  somewhat  archly,  and  glancing  at 
him,  “quite  an  original  in  its  kind.”  Her  looks,  as  well  as  the 
emphasis  on  her  words,  excited  another  laugh  at  his  expense,  which 
threw  him  into  a momentary  confusion. 

“ I think,”  said  he,  as  he  recovered  from  it,  “ the  Monument  and 
the  Tower  would  be  prodigious  fine  sights  to  you,  and  I make  a par- 
ticular request  that  I may  be  included  in  your  party  whenever  you 
visit  them : particularly  the  last  place.” 

“ And  why,”  replied  Amanda,  “ should  I take  the  trouble  of  visiting 
wild  beasts,  when  every  day  I may  see  animals  equally  strange,  and 
not  half  so  mischievous  ?” 

Freelove,  insensible  as  he  was,  could  not  mistake  tlie  meaning  of 
Amanda’s  words,  and  he  left  her  with  a mortified  air,  being,  to  us<: 
Ids  own  phrase,  “ completely  done  up.” 

10^ 


226 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Lady  Euphrasia,  now  rising  from  the  harpsichord,  requested  Amanda 
to  take  her  place  at  it ; saying,  with  an  ironical  air,  “ her  performance 
(which  indeed  was  shocking)  would  make  hers  appear  to  amazing 
advantage/^ 

Diffident  of  her  own  abilities,  Amanda  begged  to  be  excused ; but 
when  Miss  Malcolm,  with  an  earnestness  even  oppressive,  joined  her 
entreaties  to  Lady  Euphrasia^s,  she  could  no  longer  refuse. 

“ I suppose,^^  said  her  ladyship,  following  her  to  the  instrument, 
“ these  songs/'  presenting  her  some  trifling  ones,  will  answer  you 
better  than  the  Italian  music  before  you." 

Amanda  made  no  reply,  but  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a book  to  a 
lesson  much  more  difficult  than  that  Lady  Euphrasia  had  played. 
Her  touch  at  first  was  tremulous  and  weak,  but  she  was  too  suscepti- 
ble of  the  powers  of  harmony,  not  soon  to  be  inspired  by  it ; and 
gradually  .her  style  became  so  masterly  and  elegant,  as  to  excite  uni- 
versal admiration,  except  in  the  bosoms  of  those  who  had  hoped  to 
place  her  in  a ludicrous  situation ; their  individual  scheme,  instead  of 
depressing,  had  only  served  to  render  excellence  conspicuous,  and 
that  mortification  they  destined  for  another  fell  upon  themsel’^es, 
When  the  lesson  was  concluded^  some  gentlemen  who  either  were,  or 
pretended  to  be,  musical  connoisseurs,  entreated  her  to  sing.  She 
chose  a plaintive  Italian  air,  and  the  exquisite  taste  and  sweetness  with 
which  she  sung,  equally  astonished  and  delighted ; nor  was  admira- 
tion confined  to  the  accomplishments  she  displayed  ; the  soft  expres- 
sion of  her  countenance,  'which  seemed  according  to  the  harmonious 
sounds  that  issued  from  her  lips,  was  viewed  with  pleasure,  and 
praised  with  energy ; and  she  rose  from  the  harpsichord  covered  with 
blushes,  from  the  applause  which  stole  around  her.  The  gentlemen 
gathered  round  Lady  Euphrasia,  to  inquire  who  the  beautiful  stranger 
was,  and  she  gave  them  pretty  much  the  same  account  she  had 
already  done  to  Miss  Malcolm. 

The  rage  and  disappointment  of  that  young  lady,  and  her  ladyship, 
could  scarcely  be  concealed. 

‘‘  I declare,  I never  knew  anything  so  monstrously  absurd,”  exclaimed 
Lady  Euphrasia,  “ as  to  let  a girl  in  her  situation  learn  such  things, 
except,  indeed,  it  was  to  qualify  her  for  a governess,  or  an  opera 
singer.” 

‘‘Ay,  I suppose,”  said  Miss  Malcolm,  “we  shall  soon  hear  Ler  quiv- 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


227 


ering  away  at  one  of  tlie  theatres,  for  no  person  of  fasliion  would  really 
intrust  their  children  to  so  confident  a creature.” 

The  fair  object  of  their  disquietude  gladly  accompanied  Lady  Ara- 
minta  into  another  room ; several  gentlemen  followed,  and  crowded 
about  her  chair,  offering  that  adulation  which  they  were  accustomed 
to  find  acceptable  at  the  shrine  of  beauty : to  Amanda,  however,  it 
■was  irksome,  not  only  from  its  absurd  extravagance,  but  as  it  inter- 
rupted her  conversation  with  Lady  Araminta.  The  marchioness, 
however,  who  critically  watched  her  motions,  soon  relieved  her  from 
the  troublesome  assiduities  of  the  beaux,  by  placing  them  at  card 
tables : not,  indeed,  from  any  good-natured  motive,  hut  she  could  not 
hear  that  Amanda  should  have  so  much  attention  paid  her,  and  flattered 
herself  she  would  be  vexed  by  losing  it. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  Lady  Araminta  mentioned  Ireland. 

She  had  a faint  remembrance  of  Castle  Carherry,”  she  said,  and  had 
been  half  tempted  to  accompany  the  marquis  and  his  family  in  their 
late  excursion : her  brother,”  she  added,  “had  almost  made  her  promise 
to  visit  the  castle  with  him  the  ensuing  summer. — You  have  seen  Lord 
Mortimer,  to  be  sure,”  continued  her  ladyship. 

“Yes,  madam,”  faltered  Amanda,  while  her  face  was  overspread 
with  crimson  hue.  Her  ladyship  was  too  penetrating  not  to  perceive 
her  confusion,  and  it  gave  rise  to  a conjecture  of  something  more  than 
a slight  acquaintance  between  his  lordship  and  Amanda.  The  melan- 
choly lie  had  betrayed  on  his  return  ffom  Ireland,  had  excited  the 
raillery  of  her  ladyship,  till  convinced,  by  the  discomposure  he  showed 
whenever  she  attempted  to  inquire  into  the  occasion  of  it,  that  it 
proceeded  from  a source  truly  interesting  to  his  feelings.  She  knew 
of  the  alliance  her  father  had  projected  for  him  witli  the  Eosline 
family,  a project  she  never  approved  of,  for  Lady  Euphrasia  was  truly 
disagreeable  to  her;  and  a soul  like  Mortimer’s,  tender,  liberal,  and 
sincere,  she  knew  could  never  experience  the  smallest  degree  of  hap- 
piness with  a being  so  uncongenial  in  every  respect  as  was  Lady 
Euphrasia  to  him.  She  loved  her  brother  with  the  truest  tenderness, 
and  secretly  believed  he  was  attached  in  Ireland.  She  wished  to  gain 
his  confidence,  yet  would  not  solicit  it,  because  she  knew  she  had  it 
not  in  her  power  essentially  to  serve  him:  her  arguments,  she  was 
convinced,  would  have  little  weight  with  Lord  Cherhury,  who  had 
often  expressed  to  her  his  anxiety  for  a connexion  with  the  Eosline 


228 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


family.  TVith  the  loveliness  of  Amanda’s  person,  with  the  elegance 
of  her  manner,  she  was  immediately  charmed : as  she  conversed  with 
her,  esteem  was  added  to  admiration,  and  she  believed  that  Mortimer 
wonld  not  have  omitted  mentioning  to  her  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
liis  father’s  agent,  had  he  not  feared  betraying  too  much  emotion  at 
her  name.  She  appeared,  to  Lady  Araminta,  just  the  kind  of  a woman 
he  would  adore,  just  the  being  that  would  answer  all  the  ideas  of 
perfection  (romantic  ideas  she  had  called  them,)  which  he  had 
declared  necessary  to.  captivate  his  heart.  Lady  Araminta  already 
felt  for  her  unspeakable  tenderness ; in  the  softness  of  her  looks,  in 
the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  there  were  resistless  charms;  and  she 
felt,  that  if  oppressed  by  sorrow,  Amanda  Fitzalan,  above  all  other 
beings,  was  the  one  she  would  select  to  give  her  consolation.  The 
confusion  she  betrayed  at  the  mention  of  Mortimer,  made  her  ladyship 
suspect  she  was  the  cause  of  this  dejection.  She  involuntarily  fastened 
her  eyes  upon  her  face,  as  if  to  penetrate  the  recesses  of  her  heart,  yet 
with  a tenderness  which  seemed  to  say,  she  would  pity  the  secret  she 
might  there  discover. 

Lord  Cherbury,  at  this  moment  of  embarrassment  to  Amanda, 
approached.  He  said  “he  had  just  been  making  a request  and  an 
apology  to  Lady  Greystock,  and  was  now  come  to  repeat  them  to 
her.  The  former  was  to  meet  the  marquis’s  family  at  his  house  the 
next  day  at  dinner ; and  the  latter  was  to  excuse  so  unceremonious 
an  invitation,  which  he  had  been  induced  to  make  on  Lady  Araminta’s 
account,  who  Avas  obliged  to  leave  town  the  day  after  the  next,  and 
had,  therefore,  no  time  for  the  usual  etiquette  of  visiting.” 

Amanda  bowed.  This  invitation  was  more  pleasing  than  one  of 
more  form  would  have  been ; it  seemed  to  indicate  friendship,  and  a 
desire  to  have  the  intimacy  between  her  and  his  daughter  cultivated, 
it  gave  her  also  a hope  ot  seeing  Lord  Mortimer.  All  these  sugges- 
tions inspired  her  with  uncommon  animation,  had  she  entered  into  a 
lively  conversation  witli  Lord  Cherbury,  who  had  infinite  vivacity  in 
his  look  and  manner.  Lady  Araminta  observed  the  attention  he 
paid  lier  with  pleasure;  a prepossession  in  lier  favour,  she  trusted, 
might  produce  pleasing  consequences. 

Lady  Greystock,  at  length,  rose  to  depart — Amanda  received  an 
affectionate  adieu  from  Lady  Araminta;  and  Lord  Cherbury  attended 
the  ladies  to  their  carriage.  On  driving  off,  Lady  Greystoc  ^ ol  served^ 


229 


© H I L D R IS  N OB'  THE  ABBEY. 

what  a charming,  polite  man  his  lordship  was ; and,  in  short,  threw 
out  such  hints,  and  entered  into  such  a warm  eulogium  on  his  merits, 
that  Amanda  began  to  think  he  would  not  find  it  very  difficult  to 
prevail  on  her  ladyship  to  enter  once  more  the  temple  of  Hymen. 

Amanda  retired  to  her  chamber,  in  a state  of  greater  happiness 
than  for  a long  period  befoie  she  had  experienced;  but  it  was  happi- 
ness which  rather  agitated,  than  soothed  the  feelings,  particularly 
hers,  which  were  so  susceptible  of  every  impression,  that 

They  turned  at  the  toueh  of  joy  or  woe, 

And  turning,  trembled  too. 

Her  present  happiness  was  the  offispring  of  hope,  and  therefore 
peculiarly  liable  to  dissappointment ; a hope  derived  from  the  atten- 
tions of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  the  tenderness  of  Lady  Araininta,  that 
the  fond  wishes  of  her  heart  might  yet  be  realized ; wishes,  again 
believed,  from  hearing  of  Lord  Kortimer’s  dejection,  (which  his  sister 
had  touched  upon)  from  his  absenting  himself  from  the  marquis’s, 
were  not  uncongenial  to  those  he  himself  entertained.  She  sat  down 
to  acquaint  her  father  with  the  particulars  of  the  day  she  had  passed, 
for  her  chief  consolation  in  her  absence  from  him,  was,  in  the  idea  of 
writing  and  hearing  constantly ; her  writing  finished,  she  sat  by  the 
fire,  meditating  on  the  interview  she  expected  would  take  place  on 
the  ensuing  day,  till  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  watchmen  proclaiming 
past  three  o’clock,  roused  her  from  the  reverie;  she  smiled  at  the 
abstraction  of  her  thoughts,  and. retired  to  bed  to  dream  of  felicity. 

So  calm  were  her  slumbers,  and  so  delightful  her  dreams,  that  Sol 
had  long  shot  his  timorous  ray  into  her  chamber  ere  she  awoke.  Her 
spirits  still  continued  serene  and  animated.  On  descending  to  the 
drawing-room,  she  found  Lady  Greystock  just  entering  it.  After 
breakfast,  they  went  out  in  her  ladyship’s  carriage  to  different  parts 
of  the  town.  All  was  new  to  Amanda,  who,  during  her  former 
residence  in  it,  had  been  entirely  confined' to  lodgings  in  a retired 
street.  She  wondered  at,  and  was  amused  by  the  crowds  continually 
passing  and  repassing.  About  four  they  returned  to  dress.  Amanda 
began  the  labours  of  the  toilet  with  a beating  heart ; nor  were  its 
quick  pulsations  decreased  on  entering  Lady  Greystock’s  carriage, 
wliich  in  a few  minutes  conveyed  her  to  Lord  Cherbury’s  house  in 


230 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ADBET. 


6t.  James’s  Square.  Sbe  followed  lier  ladysliip  with  tottering  steps; 
and  the  first  object  she  saw,  on  entering  the  drawing-room,  was  Mor- 
timer standing  near  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXY. 

Begone  my  cares,  I giv?  you  to  the  winds. 

Rowe. 

In  the  drawing-room  were  already  assembled  the  marquis,  mar- 
chioness, Lady  Euphrasia,  Miss  Malcolm,  and  Freelove.  Lady 
Araminta  pe^'ceived,  in  the  hesitating  voice  of  Amanda,  the  emotions 
which  agitated  he^,  and  which  were  not  diminished,  when  Lord 
Cherbury  taking  her  trAinblina  hand,  said, 

‘‘Mortimer,  I presume  have  already  seen  Miss  Fitzalan  in 
‘ Ireland.” 

“ I have,  my  lord,”  cried  Mortimer,  bowing,  and  at  the  same  time 
approaching  to  pay  his  compliments. 

Every  eye  in  the  room,  except  Lord  Cherhury’s  and  Freelove’s, 
was  now  turned  upon  his  lordship  and  Amanda,  and  thought,  in  the 
expressive  countenances  of  both,  enough  could  he  read  to  confirm 
their  suspicions  of  a mutual  attachment  subsisting  between  them. 

Amanda,  when  seated,  endeavoured  to  recover  from  her  confusion. 
Miss  Malcolm,  to  prevent  Lord  Mortimer’s  taking  a seat  by  her,  which 
she  thought  she  perceived  him  inclined  to  do,  beckoned  him  to  her, 
and  contrived  to  engage  him  in  trifling  chat,  till  they  were  sum- 
moned to  dinner.  On  receiving  his  hand,  which  he  could  not  avoid 
offering,  to  lead  lier  to  the  parlour,  she  cast  a look  of  exultation  at 
Amanda.  Lady  Araminta  perceiving  all  the  gentlemen  engaged,  good 
humouredly  put  her  arm  within  Amanda’s,  and  said  she  would  be 
her  chaperon  on  the  present  occasion.  Lord  Mortimer  quitted  Miss 
Malcolm  the  moment  he  had  procured  her  a seat,  though  she  desired 
him  to  take  one  between  her  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  passing  to  the 
other  side,  placed  himself  by  Amanda.  This  action  pleased  her  as 
much  as  it  mortified  them ; it  embarrassed  her,  however,  a little ; 
but  perceiving  the  scrutinizing  earnestness  with  which  (ho  mar 


CHILDREN  OF  TIIF  ABBEY. 


231 


eliioness  and  J.ady  Euphrasia  regarded  her,  she  exerted  her  spirits, 
and  was  soon  a?jle  to  join  the  general  conversation,  Tvhich  Lord 
Mortimer  promoted. 

The  imexpected  arrival  of  Amanda  in  London,  astonished,  and 
notwithstanding  his  resentment,  delighted  him.  His  sister,  when 
they  were  alone  in  the  morning,  had  mentioned  her-  with  all  the 
fervency  of  praise ; her  plaudits  gave  him  a sensation  of  satisfied 
pride,  which  convinced  him  he  was  not  less  than  ever  interested 
about  Amanda.  Since  his  return  from  Ireland,  he  had  been  distracted 
by  incertitude  and  anxiety  about  her ; the  innocence,  purity  and  ten- 
derness she  had  displayed,  were  perpetually  recurring  to  his  memory; 
it  was  impossible,  he  thought,  they  could  be  feigned,  and  he  began  to 
think  the  apparent  mystery  of  her  conduct  she  could  satisfactorily 
have  explained ; that  designedly  she  had  not  avoided  him : and  that 
but  for  the  impetuosity  of  his  own  passions,  which  had  induced  his 
precipitate  departure,  he  might  ere  this  have  had  all  his  doubts 
removed.  Tortured  with  incessant  regret  for  this  departure,  he 
would  have  returned  immediately  to  Ireland,  but  at  this  period  found 
it  impossible  to  do  so,  without  exciting  inquiries  from  Lord  Cher- 
bury,  which  at  present  he  did  not  choose  to  answer.  He  had  planned 
an  excursion  thither  the  ensuing  summer,  with  Lady  Araminta,  deter- 
mined no  longer  to  endure  his  suspense ; he  now  almost  believed  the 
peculiar  interposition  of  Providence  had  brought  Amanda  to 
town,  thus  affording  him  another  opportunity  of  having  his  anxiety 
relieved,  and  the  chief  obstacle,  perhaps,  to  his,  and,  he  flattered 
himself,  also  to  her  happiness,  removed : for  if  assured  her  precipitate 
iourney  from  Wales  was  occasioned  by  no  motive  she  need  blush  to 
avow,  he  felt  he  should  be  better  enabled  to  combat  the  difliculties  he 
was  convinced  his  father  would  throw  in  the  way  of  their  union, 
notwithstanding  Lady  Amminta’s  endeavoum  to  gain  his  implicit 
confidence,  ho  resolved  to  withhold  it  from  her,  lest  she  should  incur 
even  tne  temporary  displeasure  of  Lord  Cherbury,  by  the  warm 
interest  he  knew  she  would  take  in  his  affairs,  if  once  informed  of 
•hem. 

Amanda  looked  thinner  and  paler  than  when  ho  had  seen  her  in 
Ireland,  yet,  if  possible,  more  interesting  from  these  circumstances ; 
and,  fi’om  the  soft  glance  she  had  involuntarily  directed  towards  him 
at  Ibo  entrance,  he  was  tempted  to  think  he  had,  in  some  degi-ce,  con- 


232 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


tribiited  to  rob  her  lovely  cbeek  of  its  bloom ; and  this  idea  rendered 
bet*  dearer  than  ever  to  liim. — Scarcely  could  he  restrain  the  rapture 
he  felt  on  seeing  her,  within  the  necessary  bounds  ; scarcely  could  ha 
believe  the  scene  which  had  given  rise  to  his  happiness  re^l ; his 
heart  at  the  moment,  melting  with  tenderness,  sighed  for  the  period  of 
explanation,  which  he  trusted,  which  he  hoped,  would  also  be  the 
period  of  reconciliation. 

The  gentlemen  joined  the  ladies  about  tea  time,  and  as  no  additional 
company  were  expected.  Lady  Euphrasia  proposed  a party . to  the 
Pantheon : this  was  immediately  agreed  to,  Amanda  was  delighted 
at  the  proposal,  as  it  not  only  promised  to  gratify  her  curiosity,  but 
to  give  Lord  Mortimer  an  opportunity  of  addressing  her,  as  she  saw 
he  wished,  but  vainly  attempted  at  home.  The  Marquis  and  Lord 
Gherbury  declined  going.  Lady  Greystock,  who  had  not  ordered 
her  carriage  till  a much  later  hour,  accepted  a place  in  the  mar- 
chioness’s. 

Neither  Lady  Euphrasia,  nor  Miss  Malcolm,  could  bear  the  idea  of 
Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda  going  in  the  same  carriage,  as  the  pre- 
sence of  Lady  Araminta,  they  were  convinced,  would  not  prevent 
their  using  an  opportunity  so  propitious  for  conversing  as  they 
wished ; Lady  Euphrasia,  therefore,  with  sudden  eagerness,  declared 
she  and  Miss  Malcolm  Vv^ould  resign  their  seats  in  the  marchioness’s 
carriage,  to  Miss  Eitzalan  and  Freelove,  for  the  pleasure  of  accompa- 
nying Lady  Araminta  in  hers.  The  marchioness,  who  conjectured 
her  daughter’s  motive  for  this  new  arrangement,  seconded  it,  to  the 
secret  regret  of  Amar^da,  and  the  visible  chagrin  of  Lord  Mortimer. 
Amanda,  however,  consoled  herself  for  this  disappointment,  by 
reflecting  on  the  pleasure  she  should  enjoy  in  a few  minutes,  when 
freed  from  the  disagreeable  observation  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady 
Euphrasia.  Her  reflections  were  not  in  the  least  interrupted  by  any 
conversation  being  addressed  to  her.  The  marchioness  and  Lady 
Greystock  chatted  together,  and  Freelove  amused  himself  humming 
a song,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  mortifying  Amand<a  by  his  inattention. 
When  the  carriage  stopped,  he  assisted  the  former  ladies  out : but  as  if 
forgetting  such  a being  existed  as  Amanda,  he  went  with  them.  She 
was  descending  the  steps  when  Lord  Mortimer  pressed  forward,  and 
snatching  her  hand,  softly  exclaimed,  “We  have  met  again,  and 
neiUier  envy  nor  malice  shall  again  separate  us.’^  A beautiful  g'ow 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  233 

overspread  tlie  countenance  of  Amanda ; her  hand  trembled  in  his, 
and  she  felt  in  that  moment  recompensed  for  her  former  disappoint- 
ment, and  elevated  above  the  little  insolence  of  Freelove.  Lord  Mor- 
timer handed  her  to  his  sister,  v/ho  was  waiting  to  receive  her,  and 
they  proceeded  to  the  room.  Lady  Euphrasia  entered  it  with  a tem- 
per unfitted  for  enjoyment:  she  was  convinced  the  whole  soul  of 
Mortimer  was  devoted  to  Amanda,  and  she  trembled,  from  the  vio- 
lent and  malignant  feelings  that  conviction  excited.  From  the 
moment  he  entered  the  carriage  till  he  quitted  it,  he  had  remained 
silent,  notwithstanding  all  her  efforts,  and  Miss  Malcolm’s  to  force 
him  into  conversation.  He  left  them  as  soon  as  they  reached  the 
Pantheon,  to  watch  the  marchioness’s  carriage,  which  followed 
theirs,  and  on  rejoining  Amanda,  he  attached  himself  entirely  to  her, 
without  any  longer  appearing  anxious  to  conceal  his  predilection  for 
her.  He  had,  indeed,  forgotten  the  necessity  there  was  for  conceal- 
ing it;  all  his  feelings,  all  his  ideas  were  engrossed  by  ecstasy  and 
tenderness.  The  novelty,  the  brilliancy  of  the  scene,  excited  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  in  Amanda,  and  he  was  delighted  with  the  ani- 
mated description  she  gave  of  the  effect  it  produced  upon  her  mind. 
In  her  he  found  united,  exalted  sense,  lively  fancy,  and  an  uncor- 
rupted taste:  he  forgot  that  the  eyes  of  jealousy  and  malevolence 
were  on  them ; he  forgot  every  object  but  herself. 

But,  alas ! poor  Amanda  was  doomed  to  disappointment  this  even- 
ing. Lady  Greystock,  according  to  a hint  she  had  received,  after  a 
few  rounds,  stept  up  to  her,  and  declared  she  must  accompany  her  to 
a seat,  as  she  was  convinced  her  health  was  yet  too  weak  to  bear 
much  fatigue.  Amanda  assured  her  she  was  not  in  the  least  fatigued, 
and  that  she  would  prefer  walking : besides,  she  had  half  promised 
Lord  Mortimer  to  dance  with  him.  This  Lady  Greystock  absolutely 
declared  she  would  not  consent  to,  thougli  Lady  Araminta,  on  whose 
arm  Amanda  leaned,  pleaded  for  her  friend,  assuring  her  ladyship 
‘‘she  would  take  care  Miss  Fitzalan  should  not  injure  herself.’^ 

“Ah,  you  young  people,’^  said  Lady  Greystock,  “are  so  carried 
away  with  spirits,  you  never  reflect  on  consequences  ; but  I declare, 
as  she  is  intrusted  to  my  care,  I could  not  answer  it  to  my  conscience 
wO  let  her  run  into  any  kind  of  danger.’^ 

Lady  Araminta  remonstrated  with  her  ladyship,  and  Amanda 
would  have  jcined,  but  that  she  feared  her  real  motive  for  so  doing 


234 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


would  have  been  discovered.  She  perceived  the  party  were  dfitained 
from  proceeding  on  her  account,  and  immediately  offered  her  arm  to 
Lady  Greystock,  and  accompanied  her  and  the  marchioness  to  a seat, 
f.ady  Euphrasia,  catching  hold  of  Lady  Araminta’s  arm,  hurried 
her,  at  the  same  instant,  into  the  crowd ; Miss  Malcolm,  as  if  by 
cl'ance,  laid  her  hand  on  Lord  Mortimer,  and  thus  compelled  him  to 
attend  her  party.  She  saw  him,  however,  in  the  course  of  the  round, 
preparing  to  fly  off ; hut  when  they  had  completed  it,  to  her  inexpres- 
sible joy,  the  situation  of  Amanda  made  him  relinquish  his  intention, 
as  to  converse  with  her  was  utterly  impossible,  for  the  marchioness 
had  placed  her  between  Lady  Greystock  and  herself ; and,  under  the 
pretence  of  frequently  addressing  her  ladyship,  was  continually  lean- 
ing across  Amanda,  so  as  to  exclude  her  almost  from  observation, 
thus  rendering  her  situation,  exclusive  of  regret  at  being  separated 
from  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Araminta,  highly  disagreeable.  The 
marchioness  enjoyed  a malicious  joy  in  the  uneasiness  she  saw  she 
gave  Amanda:  she  deemed  it  but  a slight  retaliation  for  the  uneasi- 
ness she  had  given  Lady  Euphrasia ; a trifling  punishment  for  the 
admiration  she  had  excited. 

Amanda,  indeed,  whilst  surveying  the  scene  around  her  with  won- 
der and  delight,  had  herself  been  an  object  of  critical  attenti<.n  and 
inquiry ; she  was  followed,  universally  admired,  and  allowed  to  be 
the  finest  girl  that  had  appeared  for  a long  season. 

Relieved  by  her  absence.  Lady  Euphrasia’s  spirits  began  to  revive, 
and  her  good  humour  to  return.  She  laughed  maliciously  with  Miss 
Malcolm,  at  tlie  disappointment  of  Lord  Mortimer  and  Amanda. 
After  a few  rounds,  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  in  company  with  another 
gentleman,  passed  them : he  was,  to  use  Miss  Malcolm’s  own  phrase, 
“ an  immense  favourite  with  her,”  and  she  had  long  meditated  and 
attempted  the  conquest  of  his  heart.  The  attention  which  politeness 
obliged  him  to  show,  and  the  compliments  slie  sometimes  compelled 
him  to  pay,  she  flattered  herself,  were  intimations  of  the  success  ■ *f 
her  scheme.  Lady  Euphrasia,  notwithstandiug  her  intentions  relative 
to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  her  profest  friendship  for  Miss  Malcolm,  felt 
an  ardent  desire  to  have  Sir  Charles  enrolled  in  the  list  of  her 
admirers ; and  both  ladies  determined  he  should  not  again  pass  with- 
out noticing  them.  They  accordingly  watched  his  approach,  and 
when  they  again  m addressed  liim  in  a manner  that,  to  a man 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


235 


all  interested  about  either,  would  have  been  truly  Mattering.  As 
this,  however,  was  not  the  young  baronet’s  case,  after  paying  his 
compliments,  in  a general  way,  to  the  whole  party,  he  was  making 
nis  parting  bow,  when  his  companion,  pulling  him  by  the  sleeve,  bid 
aim  observe  a beautiful  girl  sitting  opposite  to  them.  They  had 
stopped  near  the  marchioness’s  seat,  and  it  was  to  Amanda  Sir 
Charles’s  eyes  were  directed. 

^ Gracious  heaven,”  cried  he,  starting,  while  his  cheek  was  suffused 
with  a glow  of  pleasure,  “ can  this  be  possible  ? Can  this,  in  reality,” 
advancing  to  her  seat,  “be  Miss  Fitzalan?  This  surely,”  continued 
he,  “ is  a meeting  as  fortunate  as  unexpected ; but  for  that,  I should 
have  been  posting  back  to  Ireland  in  a day  or  two.” 

Amanda  blushed  deeply  at  thus  publicly  declaring  her  power  of 
regulating  his  actions.  Her  confusion  restored  that  recollection  his 
joyful  surprise  had  deprived  him  of,  and  he  addressed  the  mar- 
fhioness  and  Lady  Greystock.  The  former  haughtily  bowed,  without 
speaking;  and  the  latter,  laughing  significantly,  said,  “she  really 
imagined  ecstasy  on  Miss  Fitzalan’s  account,  had  made  him  forget 
any  one  else  was  present.”  The  situation  of  Amanda  was  tantahzing 
m an  extreme  degree  to  Sir  Charles : it  precluded  all  conversation, 
and  frequently  hid  her  from  his  view,  as  the  marchioness  and  La(ly 
Greystock  still  continued  their  nretended  whispers.  Sir  Charles  had 
some  knowledge  of  the  marchioness’s  disposition,  and  quickly  per- 
ceived the  motive  of  her  present  conduct. 

“ Your  ladyship  is  kind,”  said  he,  “ in  trying  to  -hide  Miss  Fitzalan, 
as  no  doubt  you  are  conscious  ’tis  not  a sliglit  heart-ache  she  would 
give  to  some  of  the  belles  present  this  evening;  but  why,”  continued 
he,  turning  to  Amanda,  “do  you  prefer  sitting  to  walking?” 

Amanda  made  no  answer ; but  a glance  from  her  expressive  eyes 
to  the  ladies,  informed  him  of  the  reason. 

Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm,  prov(  ked  at  the  abrupt  depar- 
ture of  Sir  Charles,  had  humed  on ; but  scarcely  had  they  proceeded 
a few  yards,  ere  envy  and  curiosity  induced  them  to  turn  back. 
Lady  Araminta  perceived  tlieir  cliagrin,  and  sweetly  enjoyed  it.  Sir 
Charles,  who  had  been  looking  impatiently  for  their  approach,  the 
•'‘•oinent  he  perceived  them,  entreated  Amanda  to  join  them. 

“Let  me,”  cried  he,  presenting  his  hand,  “be  your  knight  on  the 
present  occasion,  and  deliver  you  from  what  may  bo  called  absolute 
captiwty.” 


236 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


Slie  hesitated  not  to  accept  hio  offer;  the  continual  buzz  in  the 
room,  with  tlie  pas3iDg  and  re-passing  of  tlie  company,  had  made  hei 
nead  giddy;  she  deemed  no  apology  requisite  to  her  companions, 
and,  quitting  her  seat,  hastened  forward  to  Lady  Araminta,  who  had 
stopped  for  her.  A crowd  at  that  moment  intervening  between 
them  retarded  her  progress.  Sir  Charles,  pressing  her  hand  with 
fervour,  availed  himself  of  this  opportunity  to  express  his  pleasure 
their  unexpected  meeting. 

“ Ah ! how  little,”  cried  he,  ‘‘  did  I imagine  there  was  such  happi-^ 
ness  in  store  for  me  this  evening!” 

“Sir  Charles,”  said  Amanda,  endeavouring,  though  in  vain,  to 
withdraw  her  hand,  “you  have  learned  the  ai*t  of  flattering  since 
your  return  to  England.” 

“ I wish,”  cried  he,  “ I had  learned  the  art  of  expressing  as  I wish 
the  sentiments  I feel.” 

Lord  Mortimer,  who  had  made  way  through  the  crowd  for  the 
ladies,  at  this  instant  appeared ; he  seemed  to  recoil  at  the  situation 
of  Amanda,  whose  hand  was  yet  detained  in  Sir  Charles’s,  while  the 
soft  glow  and  confusion  of  her  face  gave  at  least  a suspicion  of  the 
language  she  was  listening  to. 

On  rejoining  the  party,  she  hcped  again  to  have  b^e^  joined  by 
Lord  Mortimer;  but,  even  if  inchLod  to  do  this.  Sir  Charles  totally 
prevented  him.  His  lordship  deserted  them,  yet  almost  continually 
contrived  to  intercept  the  party,  and  his  eyes  were  always  turned  on 
Amanda  and  Sir  Cliarles ; he  was  really  displeased  with  her ; ho 
thought  slio  might  as  well  have  left  her  seat  before,  as  after  Sir 
Charles’s  appearance,  and  he  resolved  to  watcii  lier  closely.  She  was 
asked  to  dance  by  Sir  Charles,  and  several  other  gentlemen,  but 
refused,  and  Lady  Araminta,  on  her  account,  followed  her  example. 
Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  either  were  too  much  discom- 
posed, or  not  asked  by  gentlemen  they  liked,  to  join  the  festive 
'group. 

Amanda,  from  being  disappointed,  soon  grew  languid,  and  endea- 
voured to  check,  v/ith  more  tlian  usual  seriousness,  the  ardent 
expressions  of  Sir  Charles,  who  repeatedly  declared,  “he  had  hurried 
over  the  affairs  which  brought  him  to  England,  entirely  on  her 
account,  as  he  thought  every  day  an  age  till  they  again  met.” 

She  was  rejoiced  when  Lady  Araminta  proposed  returning  home. 
Lady  Euphrasia  and  Miss  Malcolm  had  no  longer  a desire  to  accom 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


237 


pany  her  ladyship,  as  they  believed  Lord  Mortimer  already  gone,  and 
she  and  Amanda,  therefore,  returned  alone.  Sir  Charles  was  invited 
to  supper,  an  invitation  he  joyfully  accepted,  and  promised  to  follow 
her  ladyship  as  soon  as  he  had  apprised  the  party  he  came  with  of 
his  intention. 

Lady  Araminta  and  Amanda  arrived  some  time  before  the  rest  of 
the  party;  her  ladyship  said,  “ that  her  leaving  town  was  to  attend 
the  nuptials  of  a particular  friend,”  and  was  expressing  her  hopes, 
that  on  her  return,  she  should  often  be  favoured  with  the  company  of 
Amanda,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Lord  Mortimer 
entered.  He  looked  pleased  and  surprised,  and  taking  a seat  on  the 
sofa  between  them,  exclaimed,  as  he  regarded  them  with  unutterable 
tenderness,  “Surely,  one  moment  like  this  is  worth  whole  hours, 
such  as  we  have  lately  spent.  May  I,”  looking  at  Amanda,  “say, 
that  chance  is  now  propitious  to  me,  as  it  w^as  some  time  ago  to  Sir 
Charles  Bingley?  Tell  me,”  continued  he,  “were  you  not  agreeably 
surprised  to-night  ?” 

“ By  the  Pantheon  ? Undoubtedly,  my  lord.” 

“ And  by  Sir  Charles  Bingley  ?” 

“ Ho : he  is  too  slight  an  acquaintance,  either  to  give  pleasure 
"by  his  presence,  or  pain  by  his  absence.” 

This  was  just  what  Lord  Mortimer  wanted  to  hear. — The  looks  of 
Amanda,  and  above  all,  the  manner  in  which  she  had  received  the 
attentions  of  Sir  Charles,  evinced  her  sincerity.  The  shadow  of  jeal- 
ousy removed.  Lord  Mortimer  recovered  all  his  animation.  Hever 
does  the  mind  feel  so  light,  so  truly  happy,  as  when  a painful  doubt 
is  banished  from  it. 

“ Miss  Fitzalan,”  said  Lady  Araminta,  recurring  to  what  Amanda 
had  just  said,  “ can  see  few  beings  like  herself  capable  of  exciting 
immediate  esteem  : for  my  part,  I cannot  persuade  myself  that  she  is 
an  acquaintance  of  but  two  days,  I feel  such  an  interest  in  her  wel- 
fare, such  a sisterly  regard.”  She  paused  and  looked  expressively  on 
her  brother  and  Amanda.  His  fine  eyes  beamed  the  liveliest 
pleasure. 

“ Oil,  my  sister,”  cried  he,  “ encourage  that  sisterly  affection  : who 
80  worthy  of  possessing  it  as  Miss  Fitzalan  ? and  who  but  Amanda,” 
continued  he,  passing  his  arm  around  lier  v/aist,.and  softly  wliispering 
to  her,  “shall  have  a right  to  claim  it?” 


23S 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


The  stopping  of  the  carriages  now  announced  the  return  of  the 
party,  and  terminated  a scene  which,  if  much  longer  protracted, 
might,  by  increasing  their  agitation,  have  produced  a full  discovery  of 
their  feelings.  The  ladies  were  attended  by  Sir  Charles  and  Free- 
love.  The  marquis  and  Lord  Cherhury  had  been  out,  but  returned 
about  this  time,  and  soon  after  supper  the  company  departed.  Lady 
Araminta  tenderly  bidding  Amanda  farewell. 

The  cares  which  had  so  long  pressed  upon  the  heart  of  Amanda, 
and  disturbed  its  peace,  were  now  vanished ; the  whisper  of  Lord 
Mortimer  had  assured  her,  that  she  was  not  only  the  object  of  his  ten- 
derest  affections,  but  most  serious  attention;  the  regard  of  Lady 
Araminta  flattered  her  pride,  as  it  implied  a tacit  approbation  of  her 
brother’s  choice. 

The  next  morning  immediately  after  breakfast.  Lady  Greystock 
went  out  to  her  lawyer,  and  Amanda  was  sitting  at  work  in  the 
dressing  room,  when  Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  announced.  He  now 
expressed,  if  possible,  more  pleasure,  at  seeing  her,  than  he  had  done 
the  preceding  night;  congratulated  himself  at  finding  her  alone,  and 
repeatedly  declared,  from  their  first  interview  her  image  had  never 
been  absent  from  his  mind.  The  particularity  and  ardour  of  his 
expressions,  Amanda  wished  and  endeavoured  to  repress : she  had  not 
the  ridiculous  and  unfeeling  vanity  to  be  delighted  with  an  attach- 
ment she  could  not  return ; besides  his  attentions  were  unpleasing,  as 
she  believed  they  gave  uneasiness  to  Lord  Mortimer ; she  therefore 
answered  him  with  cold  and  studied  caution,  which  to  his  impetuous 
feelings,  was  insupportable.  Half  reseutiug,  half  rallying  it,  he 
snatched  her  hand,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  prevent  him,  and  was 
declaring  he  could  not  bear  it,  when  the  doors  opened,  and  Lord 
Mortimer  appeared. — Had  Amanda  been  encouraging  the  regard  of 
Sir  Charles,  she  could  not  have  betrayed  more  confusion.  Lord  Mor- 
timer retreated  a few  steps  in  evident  embarrassment;  then  bowing 
coolly,  again  advanced  and  took  a seat.  Sir  Charles  started  up,  with 
a look  which  seemed  to  say  that  he  had  been  most  unpleasantly  inter- 
rupted, and  walked  about  the  room.  Amanda  was  the  first  who 
broke  silence ; she  asked  in  a hesitating  voice,  ‘‘  Whether  Lady  Ara- 
minta was  yet  gone?” 

“ Ho,”  his  lordship  gravely  replied,  ‘‘  but  in  a few  minutes  she  pro- 
posed setting  out,  and  he  meant  to  accompany  her  part  of  the  way.” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


239 


‘^So,  till  her  ladyship  was  ready,”  cried  Sir  Charles,  with  quickness^ 
“ that  no  time  might  he  lost,  you  came  to  Miss  Fitzalan  ?” 

Lord  Mortimer  made  no  reply;  he  frowned,  and  rising  directly, 
olightly  saluted  Amanda  and  retired. 

Convinced,  as  she  was,  that  Lord  Mortimer  had  made  the  visit  for 
the  purpose  of  speaking  more  explicitly  than  he  had  yet  done,  she 
could  not  entirely  conceal  her  chagrin,  or  regard  Sir  Charles  without 
some  displeasure.  It  had  not,  however,  the  effect  of  making  him 
shorten  his  visit ; he  continued  with  her  till  Lady  Greystock’s  return, 
to  whom  he  proposed  a party  that  evening  for  the  opera,  and 
obtained  permission  to  wait  upon  her  ladyship  at  tea,  with  tickets, 
notwithstanding  Amanda  declared  her  disinclination  to  going:  she 
wished  to  avoid  the  public  as^well  as  private  attentions  of  Sir  Charles; 
but  both  she  found  it  impossible  to  do.  The  impression  which  the 
charms  of  her  mind  and  form  had  made  on  him,  was  of  too  ardent, 
too  permanent  a nature  to  be  erased  by  her  coldness : generous  and 
exalted  in  his  notions,  affluent  and  independent  in  his  fortune,  ho 
neither  required  any  addition  of  wealth,  nor  was  under  any  control, 
which  could  prevent  his  following  his  inclinations : his  heart  was 
bent  on  an  union  with  Amanda ; though  hurt  by  her  indifference,  he 
would  not  allow  himself  to  be  discouraged  by  it ; time  and  perseve- 
rance, he  trusted  and  believed,  would  conquer  it.  Unaccustomed  to 
disappointment,  he  could  not,  in  an  affair  which  so  materially 
concerned  his  happiness,  bear  the  idea  of  proving  unsuccessful.  Had 
Amanda’s  heart  been  disengaged,  he  would  probably  have  succeeded 
as  he  wished ; for  he  was  calculated  to  please,  to  inspire  admiration 
and  esteem ; and  Amanda  felt  a real  friendship  for  him,  and  sincerely 
grieved  that  his^ ardent  regard  could  not  be  reduced  to  as  temperate 
a medium  as  hers. 

Lady  Greystock  had  a numerous  and  brilliant  acquamcance  in 
London,  amongst  whom  she  was  continually  engaged.  Sir  Charles 
was  well  known  to  them,  and  therefore  almost  continually  attended 
Amanda  wherever  she  went.  His  unremitted  and  particular  attention 
excited  universal  observation,  and  he  was  publicly  declared  the 
professed  admirer  of  Lady  Greystock’s  beautiful,  companion.  The 
appellation  was  generally  bestowed  on  her  by  the  gentleman;  as 
many  of  Lady  Greystock’s  female  inmates  declared,  from  the  appear* 
ance  of  the  girl,  as  well  as  her  distressed  situation,  they  wc  ndered  Si< 


240 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Clianes  Bingley  could  ever  tliink  about  her;  for  her  ladyship  had 
represented  her  as  a person  in  the  most  indigent  circumstances,  on 
which  account  she  had  taken  her  under  her  protection.  All  that 
envy,  hatred,  and  malice  could  suggest  against  her.  Miss  Malcolm 
said.  The  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  judging  of  her  by  them- 
selves, supposed,  that,  as  she  was  not  sure  of  Lord  Mortimer,  she 
would  accept  of  Sir  Charles  ; and  though  this  measure  would  remove 
all.  apprehensions  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer,  yet  the  idea  of  the 
wealth  and  consequence  she  would  derive  from  it,  almost  distracted 
them ; thus  does  envy  sting  the  bosoms  which  harbour  it. 

Lord  Mortimer  again  resumed  his  reserve : he  was  frequently  in 
company  with  Amanda,  but  never  even  attempted  to  pay  her  any 
attention ; yet  his  eyes,  which  she  so  often  caught  ri vetted  on  her, 
though  the  moment  she  perceived  them  they  were  withdrawn,  seemed 
to  say,  that  the  alteration  in  his  manner  was  not  produced  by  any 
diminution  of  tenderness : he  was  indeed  determined  to  regulate  his 
conduct  by  hers  to  Sir  Charles : though  pained  and  irritated  by  his 
assiduities,  he  had  too  much  pride  to  declare  a prior  claim  to  her 
regard ; a woman  who  could  waver  between  two  objects,  he  deemed 
unworthy  of  either.  He  therefore  resolved  to  leave  Amanda  free  to 
act,  and  put  her  constancy  to  a kind  of  test : yet  notwithstanding  all 
his  pride,  we  believe,  if  not  pretty  well  convinced  that  this  test 
would  have  proved  a source  of  triumph  to  himself,  he  never  would 
have  submitted  to  it.  The  period  for  Lady  Araminta’s  return  was 
now  arrived,  and  Amanda  was  anxiously  expecting  her,  when  she 
heard  from  Lady  Euphrasia,  that  her  ladyship  had  been  ill  in  the 
country,  and  would  not  therefore  leave  it  for  some  time.  This  was  a 
severe  disappointment  to  Amanda,  who  had  hoped  b^  her  ladyship’s 
means,  to  have  seen  less  of  Sir  Charles,  and  more  of  Lord  Mortimer. 


CHAPTEK  XXYI. 

And  why  should  such,  within  herself  she  cried, 

Lock  the  lost  wealth  a thousand  want  beside  ? 

Parnell. 

Amanda  was  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing  room  one  morning,  when 
a gentleman  was  shown  into  it,  to  wait  for  Lady  Grcystock.  The 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


241 


stranger  was  about  the  middle  period  of  life ; his  dress  announced 
liim  a military  man,  and  his  thread-hare  coat  seemed  to  declare,  that 
whatever  laurels  he  had  gathered,  they  were  barren  ones.  His  form 
and  face  were  interesting : infirmity  appeared  to  press  upon  one,  and 
sorrow  had  deeply  marked  the  other,  yet  without  despoiling  it  of  a 
certain  expression  which  indicated  the  hilarity  nature  had  once 
Stamped  upon  it;  his  temples  were  sunk,  and  his  cheek  faded  to  a 
rickly  hue.  Amandv.  felt  immediate  respect  and  sensibility  for  the 
interesting  figure  befoi  her ; the  feelings  of  her  soul,  the  early  lessons 
of  her  youth,  liad  taught  her  to  reverence  distress ; and  never  perhaps, 
did  oh.e  tliink  it  so  peculiarly  affecting,  as  when  in  a military  garb. 

The  day  was  uncommonly  severe,  and  the  stranger  shivered  with 
the  cold. 

“I  declare,  young  lady,”  cried  he,  as  he  took  the  chair  which 
Amanda  had  placed  for  him  by  the  fire,  “ I think  I should  not  trem- 
ble more  before  an  enemy,  than  I do  before  this  day : I don’t  know 
but  what  it  is  as  essential  for  a subaltern  officer  to  stand  cold  as  fire.” 

Am.anda .smiled,  and  resumed  her  work;  she  was  busily  employed 
making  a trimming  of  artificial  flowers  for  Lady  Greystock  to  present 
to  a young  lady,  from  whose  family  she  had  received  some  obligations. 
This  was  a cheap  mode  of  returning  them,  as  Amanda’s  materials 
were  used. 

“ Your  employment  is  anertertaining  one,”  said  the  stranger,  “and 
your  roses  literally  without  thorns : such  no  doubt  as  you  expect  to 
gather  in  your  path  through  liie.” 

“ Ho,”  replied  Amanda,  “ I have  no  such  expectation.” 

“ And  yet,”  said  he,  “how  few  at  your  time  of  life,  particularly  if 
possessed  of  your  advantages,  could  make  such  a declaration.” 

“ Whoever  had  reflection  undoubtedly  would,”  replied  Amanda. 

“ That  I allow,”  cried  he,  “ bat  how  few  do  we  find  with  reflection  I 
— from  the  young  it  is  banished  as  the  rigid  tyrant  that  would  forbid 
the  enjoyment  of  the  pleasure  they  pant  after:  and  from  the  old  it  is 
toe  often  expelled  as  an  enemy  to  that  forgetfulness  which  can  alone 
ensure  their  trar<7uillity.” 

“But  in  both,  I trust,”  said  Amanda,  “you  will  allow  there  are 
exceptions.” 

“Perhaps  there  are;  yet  often  when  conscience  has  not  reason  to 
dread,  sensroihty  has  cause  to  fear  reflection : which  not  only  revives 

11 


242 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


the  recollection  of  happy  hours,  hut  inspires  such  a regret  for  their 
loss,  as  almost  unfits  the  soul  for  any- exertions ; His  indeed  beauti- 
fully described  in  these  lines: 

Still  importunate  and  vain. 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever. 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain.” 

Amanda  attentively  watched  him,  and  thought  what  he  said 
•ii>pcared  to  be  particularly  applicable  to  himself,  as  his  countenance 
resumed  a more  dejected  expression.  He  revived,  however,  in  a few 
moments. 

“1  have,  my  dear  young  lady,^^  continued  he,  smiling,  ‘‘beguiled 
you  most  soberly,  as  Lady  Grace  says,  into  conversation ; I have, 
however,  given  you  an  opportunity  of  amusing  your  fancy  by  draw- 
ing a comparison  between  an  old  veteran  and  a young  sold,ier ; but 
though  you  may  allow  him  more  animation,  I trust  you  will  not  do 
me  so  much  injustice  as  to  allow  him  more  taste;  while  he  merely 
extolled  the  lustre  of  your  e^^es,  I should  admire  the  mildness  which 
tempered  that  lustre  ; while  he  praised  the  glow  of  your  cheek,  I 
should  adore  that  sensibility  which  had  power,  in  a moment,  to  aug- 
ment or  diminish. 

At  this  instant  Lady  Greystock  entered  the  room ; — she  entered  it 
with  a swell  of  importance,  and  a haughty  expression  of  contempt  on 
her  features. 

The  stranger  rose  from  his  chair,  and  his  paleness  increased. 

“ So,  Mr.  Kushbrook,^’  at  last  drawled  out  her  ladyship ; “ so,  sir; 
but  pray  be  seated,^'  waving  her  hand  at  the  same  time. 

Amanda  now  retired : she  had  lingered  a few  moments  in  the 
room,  under  the  pretence  of  putting  her  work  out  of  her  ladyshipH 
way,  to  discover  who  the  stranger  was. 

Rushbrook  had  been  represented  to  her  as  artful,  treacherous,  and 
contemptible,  llis  appearance  was  almost  a sufficient  refutation  of 
those  charges,  and  she  began  to  think  they  never  would  have  been, 
laid  against  him  by  any  other  being  than  Lady  Greystock,  from  a 
desire  of  depreciating  her  adversary.  In  her  ladyship  she  had  seen 
much  to  dislike  since  she  resided  with  her;  she  saw  that  the  temper, 
like  the  person,  is  often  allowed  to  be  in  dishabille  at  home. 

She  felt  even  warmly  interested  about  Rushbrook;  she  had  heard 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY. 


243 


of  Ills  large  family  ; and  from  his  appearance,  she  conjectured  they 
must  be  in  distress.  There  was  a kind  of  humorous  sadness  in  his 
manner,  which  affected  her  even  more  than  a settled  melancholy  per- 
haps would  have  done,  as  it  implied  the  efforts  of  a noble  heart  to 
repel  sorrow  ; and  if  there  cannot  be  a more  noble,  neither  surely  can 
there  be  a more  affecting  sight,  than  that  of  a good  and  brave  man 
struggling  with  adversity. 

As  she  leaned  pensively  against  the  window,  reflecting  on  the 
various  inequalities  of  fortune,  yet  still  believing  they  were  designed 
by  a wise  Providence,  like  hill  and  valley,  mutually  to  benefit  each 
other,  she  saw  Rushbrook  cross  the  street:  his  walk  was  the  slow 
and  lingering  walk  of  dejection  and  disappointment:  he  raised  his 
hand  to  his  eyes,  Amanda  supposed  to  wipe  away  his  tears,  and  her 
own  fell  at  the  supposition. — The  severity  of  the  day  had  increased ; 
a heavy  shower  of  snow  was  falling,  against  which  poor  Rushbrook 
had  no  shelter  but  his  threadbare  coat.  Amanda  was  unutterably 
affected;  and  when  he  disappeared  from  her  sight,  she  fell  into  a sen- 
timental soliloquy,  something  in  the  style  of  Yorick. 

“Was  I mistress,”  exclaimed  she,  as  she  beheld  the  splendid  car- 
riages passing  and  repassing,  “ was  I mistress  of  one  of  these  carriages, 
an  old  soldier,  like  Rushbrook,  should  not  be  exposed  to  the  inclem- 
ency of  a wintry  sky ; neither  should  his  coat  be  thread-bare,  nor  his 
heart  oppressed  with  anguish ; if  I saw  a tear  upon  his  cheek,  I 
would  say  it  had  no  business  there,  for  comfort  was  about  revisiting 
him.”  As  she  spoke,  the  idea  of  Lord  Mortimer  occurred : her  tears 
were  suspended,  and  her  cheek  began  to  glow. 

“ Yes,  poor  Rushbrook,”  she  exclaimed,  “perhaps  the  period  is  not 
far  distant,  when  a bounteous  Providence,  through  the  hands  of 
Amanda,  may  relieve  thy  wants;  when  Mortimer  himself  may  be 
her  assistant  i n the  office  of  benevolence.” 

Lady  Greystock’s  woman  now  appeared,  to  desire  she  would  come 
down  to  her  lady.  She  immediately  obeyed  the  summons,  with  a 
secret  hope  of  hearing  something  of  the  c-onference.  Her  ladyship 
received  her  with  an  exulting  laugh. 

“1  have  good  news  to  tell  you,  my  dear,^^  exclaimed  she:  “that 
poor  wretch,  Rushbrook,  has  lost  the  friend  who  was  to  have  sup- 
ported him  in  the  lawsuit;  and  the  lawyers,  finding  the  sheet  anchor 
gone,  nave  steered  off,  and  left  him  to  shift  for  himself ; the  misera- 


244 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ble  creature  and  Ms  family  must  certainly  starve : only  think  of  his 
assurance ; he  came  to  say,  indeed  he  would  now  be  satisfied  with  a 
compromise.” 

‘‘Well,  madam,”  said  Amanda. 

“ Well,  madam,”  repeated  her  ladyship,  mimicking  her  manner,  “ I 
told  him  I must  be  a fool  indeed,  if  I ever  consented  to  such  a thing, 
after  his  effrontery  in  attempting  to  litigate  the  will  of  his  much 
abused  uncle,  my  dear  good  Sir  Geoffry.  l^o,  no,  I bid  liim  proceed 
in  the  suit,  and  all  my  lawyers  were  prepared ; and  after  so  much 
trouble  on  both  sides,  it  would  be  a pity  the  thing  oame  to  nothing.” 

“ As  your  ladyship,  however,  knows  his  extreme  disti  ess,  no  doubt 
you  will  relieve  it.” 

“ Why,  pray,”  said  her  ladyship,  smartly,  “ do  you  think  he  has 
any  claim  upon  me  ?” 

“Yes,”  replied  Amanda,  “if  not  upon  your  justice,  at  least  upon 
your  humanity.” 

“ So  you  would  advise  me  to  fling  away  my  money  upon  him  ?” 

“Yes,”  replied  Amanda,  smiling,  “I  would;  and  as  your  ladyship 
likes  the  expression,  have  you  fling  it  away  profusely.” 

“ Well,  well,”  answered  she,  “ when  you  arrive  at  my  age,  you  will 
know  the  real  value  of  wealth.” 

“ I trust,  madam,”  said  Amanda,  with  spirit,  ' I know  its  real 
value  already : we  only  estimate  it  differently.” 

“And  pray,”  asked  her  ladyship,  with  a sneei\  ' iow  may  you 
estimate  it  ?” 

“ As  the  means,  madam,  of  dispensing  happiness  around  us ; of  giv- 
ing shelter  to  the  houseless  child  of  want ; and  joy  to  the  afflicted 
heart : as  a sacred  deposit  intrusted  to  us  by  an  Almighty  Power  for 
those  purposes : which,  if  so  applied,  will  nourish  placid  and  delight- 
ful reflections,  that,  like  soothing  friends,  will  crowd  around  on  the 
bed  of  sickness  or  death,  alleviating  the  pains  of  one,  and  the  terrors 
of  the  other.” 

“Upon  my  word,”  exclaimed  Lady  Greystooii,  “a  fine  flowery 
speech,  and  well  calculated  for  a sentimental  novel,  or  a moral  treatise 
for  tlie  improvement  of  youth ; but  I advise  you,  ray  dear,  in  future,  to 
keep  your  queer  and  romantic  notions  to  yourself,  or  else  it  will  bo 
suspected  you  have  made  romances  your  study,  for  yju  hare  just 
spoken  as  one  of  their  heroines  would  have  done.” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


245 


Amanda  made  no  reply  : yet  as  she  beheld  her  ladyship  seated  in 
an  easy  chair,  by  a blazing  fire,  with  a large  bowl  of  rich  soup  before 
her,  which  she  took  every  morning,  she  could  not  forbear  secretly 
exclaiming, — Hard  hearted  woman,  engrossed  by  your  own  gratifi- 
cations, no  ray  of  compassion  can  soften  your  nature  for  the  misfor- 
tunes of  others ; sheltered  yourself  from  the  tempest,  you  see  it  falling 
without  pity,,  on  the  head  of  wretchedness ; and  while  you  feast  on 
luxuries,  think  without  emotion,  on  those  who  want  even  common 
necessaries. 

In  the  evening  they  went  to  a large  party  of  the  marchioness’s ; 
but  though  the  scene  v/as  gay  and  brilliant,  it  could  not  remove  the 
pensiveness  of  Amanda's  spirits ; the  emaciated  form  of  Rushbrook, 
returning  to  his  desolate  family,  dwelt  upon  her  mind.  A little,  she 
thought,  as  she  surveyed  the  magnificence  of  the  apartments  and  the 
sjdendour  of  the  company  wdiich  crowded  them ; a little  from  this 
parade  of  vanity  and  wealth,  would  give  relief  to  many  a child  of 
indigene^;  never  had  the  truth  of  the  following  lines  so  forcibly 
struck  her  imagination : 


Ah,  little  think  the  gay,  licentious  proud. 

Whom  pleasure,  power,  and  affluence  surround, 
They,  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth, 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste  ; 

Ah,  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 

How  many  Ael,  this  very  moment  death, 

And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain  : 

How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  misery ; sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds, 

How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty. 


From  such  refiections  as  these,  she  was  disturbed  by  the  entrance 
of  Sir  Charles  Bingley  ; as  us'  ial,  he  took  his  station  by  her,  and  in 
a few  minutes  after  him  'Lord  Mortimer  appeared.  A party  for 
vingtun  wac  formed,  in  which  Amanda  joined,  from  a wish  of  avoid- 
ing the  absurdities  of  Sir  Charles;  but  he  took  care  to  secure  a seat 
next  her,  and  Lord  Mortimer  sat  opposite  to  them. 

‘‘  Bingley, said  a gentleman,  after  they  had  been  sometime  at  the 
table,  ‘‘  you  are  certainly  the  most  changeable  fellow  in  the  world. 
About  three  weeks  ago  you  were  hurrying  every  thing  for  a journey 


246 


CHILDREN  THE  ABBEY. 


to  Ireland,  aa  i!  life  and  death  depended  on  your  expedition ; and 
here  I stiil  find  you  loitering  about  the  town.” 

‘‘  I deny  the  imputation  of  changeableness,”  replied  the  baronet 
“ all  my  actions  are  regulated,”  and  he  glanced  at  Amanda,  by  one 
source,  one  object.” 

Amanda  blushed,  and  caught,  at  that  moment,  a penetrating  look 
from  Lord  Mortimer. 

Her  situation  was  extremely  disagreeable : she  dreaded  liis  atten- 
tions would  be  imputed  to  encouragement  from  her:  elie  liad  often 
tried  to  suppress  them,  and  she  resolved  her  next  eiforts  sliould  be 
more  resolute. 

Sir  Charles  reached  Pall  Mall  the  next  morning,  just  a.s  Lady 
Greystock  was  stepping  into  her  chariot,  to  acquaint  her  lawyer  of 
Eushbrook’s  visit.  She  informed  him  that  Miss  Fitzalan  was  in  the 
drawing  room,  and  he  flew  up  to  her.  . 

“ You  find,”  said  he,  “ by  what  you  heard  last  night,  that  my 
conduct  has  excitedsome  surprise ; I assure  you  my  friends  think  I 
must  absolutely  be  deranged,  to  relinquish  so  suddenly  a journey  I 
appeared  so  anxious  to  take:  suffer  me^”  continued  he,  taking  her 
hand,  “ to  assign  the  true  reason  for  this  apparent  change.” 

Sir  Charles,”  replied  Amanda,  “ ’tis  time  to  terminate  this 
trifling.” 

“ Oh,  then  let  it  be  terminated,”  said  he,  with  eagerness,  by  your 
consenting  to  my  happiness  : by  your  accepting  a hand,  tendered  to 
you  with  the  most  ardent  affections  of  my  heart.” 

With  equal  delicacy  and  tenderness,  he  then  uigevi  her  acceptaime 
of  proposals,  wdiich  'were  as  disinterested  as  the  most  romantic 
generosity  could  desire  them  to  be. 

Amanda  felt  really  concerned  that  he  had  m^vde  them  ; the  grateffil 
sensibility  of  her  nature  was  hurt  at  tliC  idea  of  giving  him  pain. 

“ Believe  me.  Sir  Charles,”  said  she,  I am  truly  sensible  of  tlie 
honour  of  your  addresses ; but  I slmuld  deem  myself  unworthy  of 
the  favourable  opinion  which  excited  tliem,  if  I delayed  a moment 
assuring  you,  that  friendship  was  the  only  return  in  my  po'vver  ta 
make  for  them.” 

The  impetuous  passions  of  Sir  Charles  were  now  all  in  commotioTi, 
he  started  from  his  chair,  and  traversed  the  apartment  in  breathless 
agitation. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


247 


‘‘I  will  not,  Miss  Fitzalan,”  said  he,  resuming  his  seat  again, 
‘‘believe  you  inflexible;  I will  not  believe  that  you  can  think  I shall 
so  easily  resign  an  idea,  which  I have  so  long  cherished  with  rapture.” 

“ Surely,  Sir  Charles,”  said  Amanda,  somewhat  alarmed*  “ you 
cannot  accuse  me  of  having  encouraged  the  idea  ?” 

“ Oh,  no,”  sighed  he  passionately,  “to  me  you  were  always  uni- 
formly cold.” 

“And  from  whence  then  proceeded  such  an  idea?” 

“From  the  natural  propensity  we  all  have  to  deceive  our;:elves, 
and  to  believe  that  whatever  we  wish  will  be  accomplished.  Ah  I 
Miss  Fitzalan,  deprive  me  not  of  so  sweet  a belief;  I will  not  at 
present  urge  you  to  any  material  step  to  which  you  are  averse ; I 
will  only  entreat  for  permission  to  hope  that  time,  perseverance, 
unremitted  attention,  may  make  some  impression  on  you,  and  at  ^ast 
produce  a change  in  my  favour.” 

“I^ever,  Sir  Charles,  will  I give  rise  to  a hope  which  I think 
cannot  be  realized : a little  reflection  wiU  convince  you,  you  should 
not  be  displeased,  at  my  being  so  explicit.  We  are,  at  this  moment, 
both,  perhaps,  too  much  discomposed  to  render  a longer  conference 
desirable ; pardon  me,  therefore,  if  I now  terminate  it,  and  be  assured, 
I shall  never  lose  a grateful  remembrance  of  the  honour  you  intended 
me,  or  forget  the  friendship  I professed  for  Sir  Charles  Bingley.” 

She  then  withdrew,  without  any  obstruction  from  him ; regret  and 
disappointment  seemed  to  have  suspended  his  faculties ; but  it  was  a 
momentary  suspension,  and  on  recovering  them,  he  quitted  the  house. 

His  pride,  at  first,  urged  him  to  give  up  Amanda  forever ; but  his 
tenderness  soon  repressed  his  resolution.  He  had,  as  he  himself 
acknowledged,  a propensity  to  believe,  that  wliatever  he  wished  was 
easy  to  accomplish : this  propensity  proceeded  from  the  easiness  with 
which  his  inclinations  had  hitherto  been  gratified ; flattering  himself 
that  the  coldness  of  Amanda  proceeded  more  from  natural  reserve 
than  particular  indifference  to  him,  he  still  hoped  she  might  bo 
induced  to  favour  him.  She  was  so  superior,  in  his  opinion,  to  every 
woman  he  had  seen ; so  truly  calculated  to  render  him  happy,  that 
as  the  violence  of  offended  pride  abated,  he  resolved,  without  another 
effort,  not  to  give  her  up.  Without  knowing  it,  lie  had  rambled  to 
St.  James’s  square,  and  having  heard  of  the  friendship  subsisting 
between  I.ord  Cherbury  and  Fitzalan,  he  deemed  his  lordship  a proper 


248 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


pei*sun  to  apply  to  on  the  present  occasion;  thinking,  that  if  ho 
interested  himself  in  his  favour,  he  might  yet  he  successful.  He 
accordingly  repaired  to  his  house,  and  was  shown  into  an  apartment 
where  the  earl  and  Lord  Mortimer  were  sitting  together.  After 
paying  the  usual  compliments,  “I  am  come,  my  lord,”  said  he, 
somewhat  abruptly,  “to  entreat  yonr  interests  in  an  affair  which 
materially  concerns  my  happiness,  and  trust  your  lordship  will  excuse 
my  entreaty,  when  I inform  you  it  relates  to  Miss  Fitzalan.” 

The  earl,  with  much  politeness,  assured  him,  “he  should  feel 
happy  in  an  opportunity  of  serving  him,”  and  said  “he  did  him  hut 
justice  in  supposing  him  particularly  interested  about  Miss  Fitzalan, 
not  only  as  the  daughter  of  his  old  friend,  hut  from  her  own  great 
merit.” 

Sir  Charles  then  acquainted  him  with  the  proposals  he  had  just 
made  her,  and  her  absolute  rejection  of  them ; expressing  his  hope 
that  Lord  Oherhury  would  try  to  influence  her  in  his  favour. 

“ ’Tis  very  extraordinary  indeed,”  cried  his  lordship,  “ that  Miss 
Fitzaian  should  decline  such  an  honorable,  such  an  advantageous 
proposal ; are  you  sure.  Sir  Charles,  there  is  no  prior  attachment  in 
the  case?” 

“ I never  heard  of  one,  my  lord,  and  I believe  none  exists.”  Lord 
Mortimer’s  countenance  lowered  at  this,  but  happily  its  gloom  w^a 
nnperceived. 

“I  will  write  to  day,”  said  the  earl,  “to  Mr.  Fitzalan,  and  mentioiF 
your  proposals  to  him  in  the  terms  it  deserves ; except  authorized  by 
him,  you  must.  Sir  Chaifles,  excuse  my  personal  interference  in  tho 
affair : I hpve  no  doubt,  indeed,  but  he  will  approve  of  your  addresses, 
and  you  may  then  depend  upon  my  seconding  them  with  all  my 
interest.” 

This  promise  satisfled  Sir  Charles,  and  he  soon  after  withdrew. 
Lord  Mortimer  was  noAV  pretty  well  convinced  of  the  state  of 
Amanda’s  heart : under  this  conviction,  he  delayed  not  many  minutes 
after  Sir  Charles’s  departure,  going  to  Pall  Mall ; and  having  particu- 
larly iuquired  whether  Lady  Grey  stock  was  out,  and  being  answered 
in. the  affirmative,  he  ascended  to  the  drawing-room,  to  which  Amanda 
had  again  returned. 


OHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


CHAPTEPw  XXVII. 

Go  bid  t}  f r»edle  its  dear  north  forsake, 

To  which  »ritL  trembling  rev’rence  it  doth  bend; 

Go  bid  the  stones  a journey  upward  take; 

Go  bid  th’  ambitious  flame  no  more  ascend  : 

And  when  these  false  to  their  own  motions  prove, 

S'—-  Then  will  I cease,  thee,  thee  alone  to  love. 

OOTfLKT. 

In  an  emotion  of  surprise  at  so  unexpected  a visit,  the  book  she 
was  readicg  dropped  from  Amanda,  and  she  arose  in  visible  agitation, 

“ I fear,”  said  his  lordship,  “ I have  intruded  somewhat  abruptly 
upon  you : but  my  apology  for  doing  so,  must  be  my  ardent  wish  of 
using  an  opportunity  so  propitious  for  a mutual  eclaircissement ; 
an  opportunity  I might,  perhaps,  vainly  seek  again.” 

He  took  her  ti’embling  hand,  and  leading  her  to  a sofa,  placed  him- 
self by  her.  As  a means  of  leading  her  to  the  desired  eclaircissement, 
he  declared  the  agonies  he  had  suffered  at  returning  to  Tudor  Hall, 
and  finding  her  gone — gone  in  a manner  so  inexplicable,  that  the 
more  he  reflected  on  it,  the  more  wretched  he  grew.  He  described 
the  hopes  and  fears  which  alternately  fluctuated  in  his  mind  during 
his  continuance  in  Ireland,  and  which  often  drove  him  into  a state 
nearly  bordering  on  distraction : he  mentioned  the  resolution  (though 
painful  in  the  extreme)  which  he  had  adopted  on  the  first  appearance 
of  Sir  Charles  Bingley’s  particularity;  and  finally  concluded,  by 
assuring  her,  notwithstanding  all  his  incertitude  and  anxiety,  his 
tenderness  had  never  known  diminution. 

Encouraged  by  this  assurance,  Amanda,  with  restored  composure, 
Informed  him  of  the  reason  of  her  precipitate  journey  from  Wales, 
and  the  incidents  which  prevented  her  meeting  him  in  Ireland,  as  he 
had  expected ; though  delicacy  forbade  her  dwelling,  like  Lord  Mor- 
timer, on  the  wretchedness  occasioned  by  their  separation,  and 
mutual  misapprehensions  of  each  other,  she  could  not  avoid  touching 
upon  it,  sufficiently,  indeed,  to  convince  him  she  had  been  a sympa- 
thizing pariicipator  in  all  tlie  uneasiness  he  had  suffered. 

Eestoied  to  the  confidence  of  Mortimer,  Amanda  appeared  dearer 
his  soul  than  ever;  jAeasure  beamed  from  his  eyes  as  he  pressed 
11* 


250 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


her  to  his  bosoni,  and  exclaimed,  “I  may  again  call  you  my  07fn 
Amanda;  again  sketch  scenes  of  felicity,  and  call  upon  you  tj 
realize  them.”  Yet  in  the  midst  of  this  transport,  a sudden  gloom 
clouded  his  countenance ; aiid  after  gazing  on  her  some  minutes  with 
pensive  tenderness,  iie  fervently  exclaimed,  “ wo’  Id  to  heaven,  in  this 
hour  of  perfect  reconciliation,  I could  say,  t'  at  dl  obstacles  to  our 
future  happiness  were  removed.” 

Amanda  involuntarily  shuddered,  and  continued  silent. 

“That  my  father  will  throw  difficultiof3  in  the  way  of  our  union,  I 
cannot  deny  the  apprehension  of,”  said  Lord  Mortimer:  “though 
truly  noble  and  generous  in  his  nature,  ho  is  sometiin''s,  like  the  rest 
of  mankind,  influenced  by  interested  motives : he  has  Lng,  from  su'^'h 
motives,  set  his  heart  on  a connexion  with  the  Marquis  of  Rosline’s 
family;  though  fully  determined  in  my  intentions,  I have  hitherto 
forborne  an  explicit  declaration  of  them  to  him,  trusting  that  son.o 
propitious  chance  would  yet  second  my  wialies,  and  sa\e  me  the 
painful  necessity  of  disturbing  the  harmony  which  has  ever  subsisted 
between  us.” 

“Ohi  my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  turning  pale,  anu  shrinking 
him,  “kt  me  not  be  the  unfortunate  cause  of  disturbing  th:3t  har- 
mony; comply  with  the  wishes  of  Lord  Cherbury,  marry  Laly 
Euphrasia,  and  let  me  be  forgotten.” 

“Amanda,”  ciied  his  lordship,  “accuse  not  yourself  of  being  the 
cause  v>f  any  disagreement  between  us : had  I never  seen  you,  with 
respect  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  I should  have  felt  the  same  inability  to 
compl3»  with  his  wishes ; to  me,  her  person  is  not  more  unpleasing 
than  her  mind;  I have  long  been  convinced  that  wealth  alone  was 
insuflicient  to  bestow  felicity,  and  have  ever  considered  the  man^  who 
could  sacrifice  his  feelings  at  the  shrine  of  interest  or  ambition, 
degraded  below  the  standard  of  humanity;  th!it  to  marry  merely 
from  selfish  considerations  was  one  of  the  most  culpable,  most  con- 
temptible actions  which  could  be  committed:  to  enter  into  such  an 
union,  I want  the  propensities  which  can  alone  ever  occasion  it,  namely, 
violent  passion  for  the  enjoyments  only  attainable  thr.  ugli  the  medliins 
of  wealth.  Left  at  an  early  age,  uncontrolled  mascer  of  my 
actions,  I diank  freely  of  the  cup  of  i)lcasure,  but  soon  fr*‘‘:d  it  pall 
upon  my  taste;  it  was  indeed,  unmixed  with  any  of  those  refined 
ingredients  v/hich  can  only  please  the  intellectual  appetite,  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


251 


might  properly  he  termed  the  cup  of  false,  instead  of  real  pleas  are. 
Thinking,  therefore,  as  I do,  that  an  union,  without  love,  is  abhorrent 
to  probity  and  sensibility,  and  that  the  dissipated  pleasures  of  life  are 
not  only  prejudicial,  hut  tiresome,  I naturally  wished  to  secure  to 
myself  domestic  happiness,  hut  never  could  it  be  experi  Jioed  except 
united  to  a woman  whom  my  reason  thoroughly  appri>ved,  who 
should  at  once  possess  my  unbounded  confidence  and  tenderest  affec- 
tion, who  should  be,  not  only  the  promoter  of  my  joys,  but  tlie  as- 
suager  of  my  cares ; in  you  I have  found  such  a woman,  such  a being, 
as  I candidly  confess  some  time  ago  I thought  it  impossible  to  meet 
with ; to  you  I am  bound  by  a sentiment  even  stronger  tlian  lo  by 
honour;  and  with  real  gratitude  acknowledge  my  obligations,  in 
being  permitted  to  atone  in  some  degree,  ji  >r  my  errors  relative  tc 
you.  But  I will  not  allow  my  Amanda  t.)  suppose  these  errors  pro- 
ceeded from  any  settled  depravity  of  soul ; allowed  to  be,  as  I have 
before  said,  my  own  master,  at  an  early  period,  from  the  natural 
thoughtlessness  of  youth,  I was  led  into  scenes,  which  the  judgment 
of  riper  years  has  since  severely  condem:^ed ; here,  too,  often  I met 
with  women,  whose  manners,  instead  of  checking,  gave  a latitude  to 
freedom:  women,  too,  who  from  their  situations  ir  life,  had  every 
advantage  that  could  be  requisite  for  improving  and  refining  their 
minds;  from  conversing  wdth  them,  I grad  ‘ally  imbibed  a prejudice 
against  the  whole  sex,  and  under  that  preju«lit  first  beheld  you,  and 
feared  either  to  doubt  or  to  believe  the  readty  of  the  innocence  you 
appeared  to  possess. 

“Convinced,  at  length,  most  fully,  most  h^j-pily  convinced  of  its 
reality,  my  prejudices  no  longer  remained;  they  vanished  like  mists 
before  the  sun,  or  rather  like  the  illusions  of  falsehood  before  the 
influence  of  truth.  'Were  those,  my  dear  Ama  ida,  of  3mur  sex,  who, 
like  you,  had  the  resistless  power  of  pleasing,  to  use  the  faculties 
assigned  them  by  a bounteous  Providence  in  the  cause  of  virtue,  they 
would  soon  check  the  dissipation  of  the  times. 

“ ’Tis  impossible  to  express  the  power  a ' eautiful  form  lias  over  a 
mind ; that  power  might  be  exerted  for  ‘ obler  purposes ; purity 
speaking  from  love-inspiring  lips,  would,  like  the  Vu  ice  of  Adam’s 
heavenly  guest,  so  sweetly  breathe  upon  the  ear,  as  insensibly  to 
influence  the  heart;  the  libertine  it  corrected,  w^ould,  if  not  utterly 
liardened,  reform;  no  longer  should  he  glory  in  his  vices,  buj 
touched  und  abashed,  instead  of  destroying,  worsnip  female  virtue. 


252 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


‘‘  But  T wander  from  the  purpose  of  my  soul ; convinced  as  I am 
of  the  dissimilarity  between  my  father^s  inclinations  and  mine,  I 
think  it  better  to  give  no  intimation  of  my  present  intentions,  which 
if  permitted  by  you,  I am  unalterably  determined  on  fulfilling,  as  I 
should  consider  it  as  highly  insulting  to  him,  to  incur  his  prohibition 
and  then  act  in  defiance  of  it,  though  my  heart  would  glory  in  avow- 
ing its  choice.  The  peculiar  circumstances  I have  just  mentioned, 
will,  I trust,  induce  my  Amanda  to  excuse  a temporary  concealment 
of  it,  till  beyond  the  power  of  mortals  to  separate  us ; a private  and 
immediate  union,  the  exigence  of  situation  and  the  security  of  fe- 
licity demands;  I shall  feel  a trembling  apprehension  till  I call  you 
mine ; life  is  too  short  to  permit  the  waste  of  time  in  idle  scruples 
and  unmeaning  ceremonies ; the  eye  of  suspicion  has  long  rested  on 
us,  and  would,  I am  convinced,  effect  a premature  discovery,  if  we 
took  not  some  measure  to  prevent  it. 

Deem  me  not  too  precipitate,  my  Amanda,'^  passing  his  arm 
gently  round  her  waist,  “if  I ask  you,  to-morrow  night,  for  the  last 
sweet  proof  of  confidence  you  can  give  me,  by  putting  yourself  under 
my  protection  ; a journey  to  Scotland  is  unavoidable;  in  the  arrange 
ment  I shall  make  for  it,  all  that  is  due  to  delicacy  I shall  consider.^^ 

“ Mention  it  no  more,  my  lord,^^  said  Amanda,  in  a faltering 
accent;  “no  longer  delude  your  imagination,  or  mine,  with  the  hopes 
of  being  united.^^ 

Hitherto  she  had  believed  the  approbation  of  Lord  Cherbury  to  the 
wishes  of  his  son  would  be  obtained,  the  moment  he  was  convinced 
how  essential  their  gratification  was  to  his  felicity ; she  judged  of 
him  by  her  father,  who,  she  was  convinced,  if  situations  were 
reversed,  would  bestow  her  on  Mortimer  without  hesitation.  These 
ideas  so 'nourished  her  attachment,  that,  like  the  vital  parts  of  exist- 
ence, it  at  length  became  painfully,  almost  fatally  susceptible  of  eve^y 
shock.  Her  dream  of  happiness  was  over,  the  moment  she  heard 
Lord  Cherbury^s  consent  was  not  to  be  asked,  from  a fear  of  its  being 
refused : was  misery  to  be  separated  from  Lord  Mortimer,  but  it 
was  guilt  and  misery  to  marry  him  clandestinely,  after  the  solemn 
injunction  her  father  had  given  her  against  such  a step.  The  shock 
of  disappointment  could  not  be  borne  with  composure : it  pressed  like 
a cold  dead  weight  upon  her  heart ; she  trembled,  and,  unable  to 
support  herself,  sunk  against  the  shoulder  of  Lord  Mortimer,  while  a 
shower  of  tears  proclaimed  her  agony,  iilarmed  by  her  eraotion, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


25;:^ 

Lord  Mortimer  hastily  demanded  its  source,  and  the  reason  of  the 
words  which  had  just  escaped  her. 

‘‘  Because,  my  lord,^^  replied  she,  “ I cannot  consent  to  a clandestine 
measure,  nor  bear  you  should  incur  the  displeasure  of  Lord  Clierbury 
on  my  account. — Though  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  is  not  agreea- 
ble, there  are  many  women  who,  with  equal  rank  and  fortune, 
possess  the  perfection  suited  to  your  taste ; seek  for  one  of  these ; 
choose  from  among  them  a happy  daughter  of  prosperity,  and  let 
Amanda,  untitled,  unportioned,  and  unpleasing  to  your  father,  return 
to  an  obscurity,  which  owes  its  comforts  to  his  fostering  bounty. 
“Does  this  advice,^^  asked  Lord  Mortimer,  ‘‘proceed  from  Amanda^s 
heart  “No,^^  replied  she,  hesitatingly  and  smiling  through  her 
tears,  “not  from  her  heart,  but  from  a better  counsellor,  herreason.’^ 
“And  shall  I not  obey  the  dictates  of  reason,^^  replied  he,  “in 
uniting  my  destiny  to  yours ; reason  directs  us  to  seek  happiness 
through  virtuous  means ; and  what  means  are  so  adapted  for  that 
purpose,  as  an  union  with  a beloved  and  amiable  woman  ? No,  Aman- 
da, no  titled  daughter  of  prosperity,  to  use  your  own  words,  shall 
ever  attract  my  affections  from  you. — “ Imagination  cannot  form  a 
shape  besides  your  own  to  like  of,^^  a shape  which  even  if  despoiled 
of  its  graces,  would  enshrine  a mind  so  transcendently  lovely,  as  to 
secure  my  admiration.  In  choosing  you  as  a partner  of  my  future 
days,  I do  not  infringe  the  moral  obligation  which  exists  between 
father  and  son ; for  as  on  one  hand,  it  does  not  demand  implicit  obe- 
dience, if  reason  and  happiness  must  be  sacrificed  by  it;  nothing 
should  have  tempted  me  to  propose  a private  union,  but  the  hope  of 
escaping  many  disagreeable  circumstances  by  it:  if  you  persist,  how- 
ever, in  rejecting  it,  I shall  openly  avow  my  intentions,  for  a longer 
continuance  of  anxiety  and  suspense  I cannot  support.^^ 

“Do  you  think,  then,^^  said  Amanda,  “I  would  enter  your  family 
amidst  confusion  and  altercation?  No,  my  lord,  rashly  or  clandes- 
tinely I never  will  consent  to  enter  it.^^ 

“Is  this  the  happiness  I promised  myself  would  crown  our  recon- 
ciliation?^' exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  rising  hastily,  and  traversing 
the  apartment:  “is  an  obstinate  adherence  to  royal  punctilio,  the 
only  proof  of  regard  I shall  receive  from  Amanda?  Will  she  make  no 
trilling  sacrifice  to  the  man  who  adores  her,  and  whom  she  professes 
to  esteem  ?" 


254 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ADDEY. 


“ Any  sacrifice,  my  lord,  compatible  witli  virtue  and  filial  duty 
most  willingly  would  I make ; but  beyond  tliese  limits,  I must  not, 
camiot,  will  not  step.  Cold,  joyless,  and  unwortliy  of  your  ^icccya- 
RP.ce  would  be  tlie  hand  you  would  receive,  if  given  against  my  cort- 
victiou  of  what  was  right.  Oh,  never  ma}-  the  hour  arrive,  in 
which  I should  blush  to  see  my  father ; in  wliich  I should  be  accused 
of  injuring  the  honour  intrusted  to  my  charge,  and  feel  ojiprcst  with 
the  consciousness  of  having  planted  thorns  in  the  breast  that  depend- 
ed on  me  for  happiness !” 

“Do  not  be  too  inflexible,  my  Amanda,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer, 
resuming  his  seat,  “nor  sufier  too  great  a degree  of  refinement  to 
involve  you  in  wretchedness;  felicity  is  seldom  attained  without  soma 
pain;  a little  resolution  on  your  side,  would  overcome  any  difficulties 
that  lay  between  us  and  it ; when  the  act  was  past,  my  father  tvould 
naturally  lose  his  resentment,  from*  perceiving  its  ineffioacy,  and 
family  concord  would  speedily  be  restored.  Araminta  adores  you: 
with  rapture  would  she  receive  her  dear  and  lovely  sister  to  her 
bosom ; your  father,  happy  in  your  happiness,  would  be  convinced 
his  notions  heretofore  were  too  scrupulous,  and  that  in  complying 
with  my  wishes,  you  had  neither  violated  your  own  dcll*:acy,  nor  tar- 
nished his  honour.” 

“ All,  my  lord,  your  arguments  have  not  the  effect  you  desire : I 
cannot  be  deluded  by  them  to  view  things  in  the  light  you  wish ; to 
unite  myself  clandestinely  to  you,  would  be  to  lly  in  the  face  of 
parental  authority;  to  be  proposed  to  Lord  Oherbury,  when  almost 
certain  of  a refusal,  would  not  only  subject  me  to  insult,  but  dissolve 
the  friendship  which  has  hitherto  subsisted  between  his  lordship  and 
my  father.  Situated  as  we  are,  our  only  expedient  is  to  separate;  his 
absurd  to  think  longer  of  a connexion  against  which  there  are  such 
obstacles ; the  task  of  trying  to  forget,  will  be  easier  to  you,  my  lord, 
tlian  you  perhaps  imagine;  the  scenes  you  must  be  engaged  in,  are 
well  calculated  to  expunge  painful  remembrances ; in  the  retirement 
my  destiny  has  doomed  me  to,  my  efforts  will  not  be  wanting  to  reii 
der  me  equally  successful.” 

The  tears  trickled  down  Amanda’s  pale  cheeks  as  she  spoke;  sho 
Delieved  that  they  mus,^  part,  and  the  belief  was  attended  with  a pang 
of  unutterable  anguisli : pleased  and  pained  by  her  sensibility,  I.ord 
Mortimer  bent  forward,  and  looked  in  lier  face. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  A B E E T . 


255 


“Are  these  tears,”  said  lie,  “to  enforce  me  to  tlie  only  expedient 
yon  say  remains?  Ah,  my  Amanda,”  clasping  her  to  his  breast, 
“ the  task  of  forgetting  you  could  never  he  accomplished,  could  never 
be  attempted : life  would  be  tasteless,  if  not  spent  with  you  ; never 
will  I relinquish  the  delightful  hope  of  an  union  yet  taking  place.  A 
sudden  thought,”  resumed  he,  after  pausing  a few  minutes,  “has  just 
occurred : I have  an  aunt,  the  only  remaining  sister  of  Lord  Cher- 
bury,  a generous,  tender,  exalted  woman;  I have  ever  been  her  par- 
ticular favourite ; my  Amanda,  I know,  is  the  very  kind  of  being  slie 
would  select,  if  the  choice  devolved  on  her,  for  my  wife;  she  is  now 
in  the  country:  I will  wu-ite  immediately,  inform  her  of  our  situa- 
tion, and  entreat  her  to  come  up  to  town,  to  use  her  influence  wdth 
my  father  in  our  favour.  Her  fortune  is  large  from  the  bequest  of  a 
rich  relation  ; a'ld,  froiu  the  generosity  of  her  disposition,  I have  no 
doubt  slie  Would  render  the  loss  of  Lady  Euphrasia’s  fortune  very 
immaterial  to  her  brother.  This  is  the  only  scheme  I can  possibly 
devise  for  the  completion  of  our  happiness,  according  to  your  notions, 
and  I hope  it  meets  your  approbation.” 

It  appeared  indeed  a feasible  one  to  Amanda ; and  as  it  could  not 
possibly  'woite  any  ideas  unfavourable  to  her  father’s  integrity,  she 
gave  her  consent  to  its  being  tried. 

Her  lieart  felt  relieved  of  an  oppressive  load  as  the  hope  revived 
that  it  might  be  accomplished.  Lord  Mortimer  wiped  away  her 
tears,  and  the  cloud  which  liung  over  them  both  being  dispersed,  they 
talked  with  pleasure  of  future  days. 

Lord  Mortimer  described  the  various  schemes  lie  had  planned  fw 
their  mode  of  life.  Amanda  smiled  at  the  easiness  wdtli  which  he 
contrived  them,  and  secretly  wished  he  might  find  it  as  easy  to  real- 
ize as  to  project. 

“Tliough  the  retired  path  of  life,”  said  he,  “miglit  be  more  agreea- 
ble to  us,  than  the  frequented  and  public  one,  we  must  make  some 
little  sacrifice  of  inclination  to  the  community  to  wdiich  we  belong. 
On  an  elevated  station  and  afliuent  fortune,  there  are  claims  from  sub- 
ordinate ranks,  which  cannot  be  avoided  witliout  injuring  tlicm ; 
neither  should  I wish  to  hide  the  beautiful  gem  I shall  possess  in 
obscurity;  but,  after  a winter  of  what  I call  moderate  dissipation, 
we  shall  hasten  to  the  sequestered  sliades  of  Tudor  Hall.”  He  dwelt 
with  pleasure  on  the  calm  and  rational  joys  they  should  experience 


250 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  A B B E F . 


there : nor  could  forbear  liiiiting  at  the  period  when  new  tenderness, 
new  sympathies  would  be  awakened  in  their  souls : when  litile  prat- 
tling beings  should  frolic  before  them,  and  literally  strew  roses  in 
their  paths.  He  expressed  his  wish  of  having  Fitzalan  a constant 
resident  with  them : and  was  proceeding  to  mention  some  alterations 
he  intended  at  Tudor  Hall,  when  the  return  of  Lady  C^eystock’s  car- 
riage effectually  disturbed  him. 

Lord  Mortimer,  however,  had  time  to  assure  Amanda,  ere  she 
entered  the  room,  that  he  had  no  doubt  but  every  thing  would  soon 
be  settled  according  to  their  wishes,  and  that  he  would  take  every 
opportunity  her  ladyship’s  absence  gave  him  of  visiting  her. 

“So,  so,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  coming  into  the  room,  “this  has 
been  Miss  Fitzalan’s  levee  day;  why,  I declare,  my  dear,  now  that  I 
knoAv  of  the  agreeable  tete-a-t^tes  you  can  enjoy,  I shall  feel  no 
uneasiness  at  leaving  you  to  yourself.” 

Amanda  blushed  deeply,  and  Lord  Mortimer  thought  in  this  s^-eech 
he  perceived  a degree  of  irony,  which  seemed  to  say  all  was  not  right 
in  the  speaker’s  heart  towards  Amanda ; and  on  this  account  he  felt 
more  anxious  than  ever  to  have  her  under  his  own  protection;  ani- 
mated by  the  idea  that  this  would  soon  be  the  case,  he  to' d her  lady- 
ship, smiling,  “ she  should  be  obliged  to  him,  or  any  other  person,  who 
could  relieve  her  mind  from  uneasiness,”  and  departed. 

This  had  been  a busy  and  interesting  day  to  Amanda,  and  the 
variety  of  emotions  it  had  given  rise  to,  produced  a languor  in  her 
mind  and  frame  slie  could  not  shake  off. 

Her  expectations  were  not  as  sanguine  as  Lord  ortimer’s : once 
severely  disappointed,  she  dreaded  again  to  give  too  great  latitude  to 
hope:  happiness  Avas  in  view,  but  she  doubted  much  Avhether  it 
would  ever  be  within  her  reach ; yet  the  pain  of  suspense  she  endeaA"- 
oured  to  alleviate,  by  reflecting  that  every  event  was  under  the  direc- 
tion of  a superior  being,  Avho  knew  best  what  would  constituce  tlie 
felicity  of  his  creatures. 

Lady  Greystock  learned  from  her  maid  the  length  of  Lord  Mo'^ti- 
mcr’s  visit,  and  she  was  convinced,  from  that  circumstance  > as  well 
as  from  the  looks  and  absent  manner  of  Amanda,  that  something 
material  had  happened  in  the  course  of  it.  In  the  evening  they  were 
engaged  to  a party,  and  ere  they  separated  after  dinner,  to  cress  for 
it,  a plain  looking  woman  was  shown  into  the  room,  who  Amanda 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


25^? 


inetantly  recollected  to  be  the  person,  at  whose  liouse  she  and  her 
father  had  lodged  on  quitting  Devonshire,  to  secrete  themselves  from 
Colonel  Belgrave.  This  woman  had  been  bribed  to  serve  him,  and 
had  forced  several  letters  upon  Amanda,  who,  therefor*^  naturally 
abhorred  the  sight  of  a person  that  had  joined  in  so  infamous  a plot 
against  her ; and  to  her  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure,  only 
returned  a cool  bow,  and  directly  left  the  room.  She  was  vexed  at 
seeing  this  woman.  The  conduct  of  Colonel  Belgrave  had  hitherto 
been  concealed,  from  motives  of  pride  and  delicacy;  and  to  Lady 
Greystock,  of  all  other  beings,  she  wished  it  not  revealed ; her  only 
hope  of  its  not  being  so,  was,  that  this  woman,  on  her  own  account, 
would  not  mention  it,  as  she  must  be  conscious  that  her  efforts  to 
serve  him  were  not  undiscovered. 

Mrs.  Jenninga  Jiad  been  housekeeper  to  Lady  Greystock  during  her 
residence  in  England,  and  so  successfully  ingratiated  herself  into  her 
favour,  that  though  dismissed  from  her  service,  she  yet  retained  it. 
Lady  Greystock  was  surprised  to  see  slie  and  Amanda  knew  each 
other,  and  inquired  minutely  liow  the  acquaintance  had  commenced. 
The  manner  in  which  she  mentioned  Amanda,  convinced  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings she  was  not  high  in  her  estimation,  and  from  this  conviction, 
she  thought  she  might  safely  assert  any  falsehood  she,  pleased  against 
her.  As  she  knew  enough  of  her  lady’s  disposition,  to  be  assured  she 
never  would  contradict  an  assertion  to  the  prejudice  of  a person  she 
disliked  ; by  what  she  designed  saying,  she  trusted  any  thing  Amanda 
might  say  against  her  would  appear  malicious,  and  that  she  should  also 
be  revenged  for  the  disdainful  air  with  which  she  liad  regarded  her. 

She  told  her  ladyship,  “ that,  near  a year  back,  Miss  Fitzalan  hat 
been  a lodger  others,  as  also  an  old  officer  she  called  her  father;  but 
had  she  known  what  kind  of  people  they  were,  she  never  would  have 
admitted  them  into  her  house.  Miss  was  followed  by  such  a set 
of  gallants,  she  really  thought  the  reputation  of  her  house  would  have 
been  ruined.  Among  them  was  Colonel  Belgrave,  a sad  rake,  who 
she  believed  was  a favourite.  She  was  determined  on  making  tliem 
decamp,  when  suddenly  Miss  went  off,  nobody  knew  where,  but  it 
might  easily  be  guessed  sL  did  not  travel  alone,  for  the  colonel  disap- 
peared  at  the  same  time.” 

The  character  of  Fitzalan,  and  the  uniform  propriety  of  Amanda^s 
eonduet,  forbid  Lady  Greystock’s  giving  implicit  credit  to  what  Mrs 


Q58 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Jennings  said;  she  perceived  in  ifc  the  exaggerations  of  malice  and 
falsehood,  occasioned  she  supposed  hy  disappointed  avarice,  or 
olfended  pride.  Slie  resolved,  however,  to  relate  all  she  heard  to  the 
riiarchioney;i,  without  betraying  the  smallest  doubt  of  its  veracity. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  Lady  Greystock,  after  taking  Amanda, 
unsolicited,  under  her  protection,  should,  without  any  cause  of  enmity, 
eeek  to  injure  her:  but  Lady  Greystock  was  a woman  devoid  of  prin- 
ciple ; from  selfish  motives  she  had  taken  Ama  Xla,  and  from  selfish 
motives  she  was  ready  to  sacrifice  her. — Her  Ic^dyship  had  enjoyed  so 
much  happiness  in  her  matrimonial  connections,  that  she  had  no 
objection  again  to  enter  the  lists  of  Hymen,  and  Lord  Cherbury  was 
the  object  at  which  her  present  wishes  were  pointed. — The  mar- 
chioness had  hinted,  in  pretty  plain  terms,  that  if  she  counteracted 
Lord  Mortimer’s  intentions  respecting  Amanda,  8b{4  would  forward 
hers  relative  to  Lord  Oherbury. 

She  thought  what  Mrs.  Jennings  had  alleged  would  effectually  for- 
ward their  plans ; as  she  knew,  if  called  upon,  she  would  support  it. 
The  next  morning  she  went  to  Portman  Square,  to  communicate  her 
important  intelligence  to  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia.^ 

Joy  and  exultation  sat  upon  their  features,  at  receiving  this 
interesting  communication,  which  opened  so  charming  a prospect  of 
separating  Lord  Mortimer  from  Amanda,  by  giving  them  the  power 
of  injuring  her  character.  This  joy  and  exultation  they  deemed 
requisite  for  some  time  to  conceal ; they  considered  their  measures 
%vould  he  .more  successful  for  being  gradually  brought  about,  and 
tlierefore  resolved  rather  to  undermine,  than  direct- y strike  at  the 
peace  of  Amanda. 

Like  Lady  Greystock,  they  disbelieved  Mrs.  Jennings’  tale,  but  Yiko 
her  ladyship,  confined  this  disbelief  to  their  own  bosoms.  In  tJio 
manner,  the  appearance  of  Amanda,  there  was  an  innocence,  a mild- 
ness that  denoted  something  holy  dwelt  within  her  breast,  and  for- 
bid the  entrance  of  any  impure  or  wayward  passions : besides,  from 
a gentleman  who  had  resided  in  Devonshire,  they  learned  the  dis- 
tress Fitzalan  was  reduced  to  by  Belgrave’s  revenge  for  the  virtue  of 
his  daughter.  This  gentleman  was  now,  however,  on  the  continent, 
and  they  ha<l  no  fear  < f their  allegations  against  Amanda  being  ccn- 
tradicted,  or  their  schemes  against  her  being  overthrown. 

After  some  consultation,  it  was  agreed,  as  a means  of  expediting 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


259 


their  plot,  that  Lady  Greystock  and  Amanda  should  immediately 
remove  to  the  marchioness’s  house;  hy  this  change  of  abode  loo, 
Lord  Mortimer  would  be  prevented  taking  any  material  step  relative 
to  Amanda,  till  the  period  arrived,  when  his  own  inclination  would 
most  probably,  render  any  further  trouble  on  that  account  unneces. 
eary. 

Lady  Greystor.k,  on  her  return  to  Pall  Mall,  after  a warm  eulo- 
gium  on  the  ikiend:5liip  of  the  marcliioness,  mentioned  the  invitation 
she  had  given  them  to  her  house,  which  she  declared  she  could  not 
refuse,  as  it  was  made  from  an  ardent  desire  of  enjoying  more  of 
their  society  than  slm  had  hitherto  done  during  their  short  stay  in 
London.  Sne  also  told  Amanda,  that  both  the  marchioness  and  Lady 
Euphrasia  had  expressed  a tender  regard  for  her  and  a wish  of  prov- 
ing to  the  woi  -d  that  any  coolness  which  existed  between  their  fami- 
lies, was  removed  by  lier  becoming  their  guest. 

This  projected  ]-emoval  was  extremely  disagreeable  to  Amanda,  as 
it  not  only  terminated  the  morning  interviews  whicli  were  to  take 
place  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer,  during  the  absence  of  Lady 
GreystocK  with  her  lawyers,  but  threatened  to  impose  a restraint  on 
her  looks  as  well  as  actions,  being  confident,  from  the  views  and 
suspicions  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  should  continually  be  watched 
with  the  closest  circumspection.  Her  part,  however,  was  acquies- 
cence; the  lodgings  were  discharged,  and  tlie  next  morning  they 
took  up  their  residence  under  the  Marquis  of  Rosline’s  roof,  to  the 
infinite  surprise  and  mortification  of  Lord  Mortimer,  who,  like 
Amanda,  anticipated  the  disagreeable  consequences  which  would 
result  from  it. 

The  altered  manner  of  the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  sur- 
prised Amanda ; they  received  her  not  merely  with  politeness,  but 
affection  recapitulated  all  Lady  Greystock  had  already  said,  concern- 
ing their  icgard;  bid  her  consider  herself  entirely  at  home  in  their 
house,  and  appointed  a maid  solely  to  attend  her. 

Xotwitlistanding  their  former  cool,  even  contemptuous  conduct, 
Amanda,  the  child  of  innocence  and  simplicity,  could  not  believe  the 
alteration  in  their  manners  feigned,  she  rather  believed  that  her  own 
j*atience  and  humility  had  at  length  conciliated  their  regard;  the 
idea  pleased  her,  and  like  every  other,  which  she  supposed  could  give 
her  father  satisfaction,  it  was  instantly  communicated  to  him. 


260 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


She  found  herself  most  agreeably  mistaken,  relative  to  the  restraint 
she  had  feared;  she  was  perfect  mistress  of  her  own  iime  and 
actions;  and  when  she  saw  Lord  Mortimer,  no  lowering  looks,  no 
studied  interference,  as  heretofore,  from  the  marchioness  or  Lady 
Euphrasia,  prevented  their  frequently  conversing  together.  The 
marchioness  made  her  several  elegant  presents,  and  I;a<i7  Euphrasia 
frequently  dropped  the  formal  appellation  of  I^fiss  Fitzalan,  for  . the 
more  familiar  one  of  Amanda. 

• Sir  Charles  Bingley,  agreeable  to  his  resolution  of  not  relinquishing 
Amanda  without  another  effort  for  her  favour,  still  persisted  in  his 
attentions,  and  visited  constantly  at  the  marquis’s. 

Amanda  had  been  about  a fortnight  in  Portman  Square,  when  she 
went  one  night  with  the  marchioness,  Lady  Euphrasia,  Miss  Malcolm 
and  Lady  Greystock,  to  the  Pantheon.  Lord  Mortimer  had  told  her, 
that  if  he  could  possibly  leave  a particular  party  he  was  engaged  to, 
he  would  be  there.  She  therefore,  on  that  account,  wished  to  keep 
herself  disengaged;  but  immediately  on  her  entrance,  she  was  joined 
by  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  and  she  found  she  must  either  dance  with 
him,  as  he  requested,  or  consent  to  listen  to  his  usual  con  wersation ; 
and  she  chose  the  first,  as  being  least  particular.  The  dancing  over, 
Sir  Charles  was  conducting  her  to  get  some  refreshments,  wfien  a 
gentleman  hastily  stepping  forward,  saluted  him  by  his  name, 
Amanda  started  at  the  sound  of  the  voice;  she  raised  her  eyes, 
and  with  equal  horror  and  surprise  beheld  Colonel  Belgrave. 

She  turned  pale,  trembled,  and  involuntarily  exclaimed,  Gracious 
Heaven!”  her  soul  recoiled  at  the  sight,  as  if  an  evil  genius  had  sud' 
denly  darted  into  her  path,  to  blast  her  ho^s  of  happiness ; sickening 
with  emotion,  her  head  grew  giddy,  and  she  caught  Sir  Charles's  arm 
to  prevent  her  falling. 

Alarmed  by  her  paleness  and  agitation,  he  hastily  demanded  tiio 
cause  of  her  disorder;  willing  to  believe,  notwithstand.ing  what  be 
had  seen,  that  it  did  not  proceed  from  the  sight  of  Colonel  Belgrave. 
“ O take  me,  take  me  from  this  room,”  was  all,  in  faltering  accents, 
Amanda  could  pronounce,  still  leaning  on  liiin  for  support.  Colonel 
Belgrave  inquired  tenderly  what  they  could  do  to  serve  iier,  and  at 
the  same  time  attempted  to  take  her  liand. 

She  shrunk  from  his  touch  with  a look  of  expressive  horror,  and 
again  besought  Sir  Charles  to  take  her  from  the  room,  and  procuro 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


261 


her  a conveyance  home.  Her  agitation  now  became  contagious ; it 
was  visible  to  Sir  Charles  that  it  proceeded  from  seeing  Colonel  Bel- 
grave,  and  he  trembled  as  he  supported  her. 

Belgrave  offered  his  services  in  assisting  to  support  her  from  tho 
room,  but  she  motioned  with  her  hand  to  repulse  him. 

At  the  door  they  met  Lord  Mortimer  entering.  Terrified  by  the 
situation  of  Amanda,  all  caution,  all  reserve  forsook  him,  and  his 
rapid  and  impassioned  inquiries  betrayed  the  tender  interest  she  had 
in  his  heart.  Unable  to  answer  them  herself.  Sir  Charles  replied  for 
her,  saying,  “ she  had  been  taken  extremely  ill  after  dancing,”  and 
added,  “ he  Tvmuld  resign  her  to  his  lordship’s  protection  while  ho 
w^ent  to  procure  her  a chair.” 

Lord  Mortimer  received  the  lovely  trembler  in  his  arms ; he  softly 
called  her  his  Amanda,  the  beloved  of  his  soul,  and  she  began  to 
revive : his  presence  was  at  once  a relief  and  comfort  to  her,  and  his 
language  soothed  the  perturbations  of  her  mind ; but  as  she  raised 
her  head  from  his  shoulder,  she  beheld  Colonel  Belgrave  standing 
near  them.  His  invidious  eyes  fastened  on  her;  she  averted  her 
head,  and  saying  the  air  would  do  her  good.  Lord  Mortimer  led  her 
forward,  and  took  this  opportunity  of  expressing  his  wishes  for  tho 
period,  when  he  should  be  at  liberty  to  watch  over  her  vrith  guardian 
care,  soothe  every  weakness  and  soften  every  care. 

In  a few  minutes  Sir  Charles  returned,  and  told  her  he  had  pro- 
cured a chair.  She  thanked  him  with  grateful  sweetness  for  his 
attention,  and  requested  Lord  Mortimer  to  acquaint  the  ladies  with 
the  reason  of  her  abrupt  departure.  His  lordship  wished  himself  to 
have  attended  her  to  Portman  Square,  but  she  thought  it  would 
appear  too  particular,  and  would  not  suffer  him. 

She  retired  to  her  room,  immediately  on  her  return,  and  endeav- 
oured, though  unsuccessfully,  to  compose  her  spirits. 

The  distress  she  suffered  from  Belgrave’s  conduct  had  left  an 
Impression  on  her  mind,  which  could  not  be  erased ; the  terror  his 
presence  inspired,  was  too  powerful  for  reason  to  conquer,  and  raised 
the  most  gloomy  presages  in  her  mind ; she  believed  him  capable  of 
any  villany : his  looks  had  declared  a continuance  of  illicit  love : she 
trembled  at  the  idea  of  his  stratagems  being  renewed:  her  appre- 
hensions were  doubly  painful,  from  the  necessity  of  concealment,  lest 
those  dearer  to  her  than  existence,  should  be  involved  in  danger  on 
her  account.  To  heaven  she  looked  up  for  protection,  and  the  terrors 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  her  heart  were  somewhat  lessened,  conscious  that  heaven  could 
render  the  aims  of  Belgi’ave  against  her  peace,  as  abortive  as  those 
against  her  innocence  had  been. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  parted  from  Lord  Mortimer  immediately  after 
Amanda’s  departure,  and  returned  arm  in  arm  with  Belgrave  to  the 
room.  “ Belgrave,”  said  he  abruptly,  after  musing  some  minutes, 
“ you  know  Miss  Fitzalan  ?” 

Belgrave  answered  not  hastily : he  api^eared  as  if  deliberating  on 
the  reply  he  should  give ; at  last,  I do  know  Miss  Fitzalan,”  cried 
he,  “her  father  was  my  tenant  in  Devonshire;  she  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  girls  I ever  knew.” 

“Lovely  indeed,”  said  Sir  Charles  with  a deep  and  involuntary 
sigh,  “but  it  is  somewhat  extraordinary  to  me,  that  instead  of 
noticing  you  as  a friend  or  acquaintance,  she  should  look  alarmed  and 
agitated,  as  if  she  had  seen  an  enemy.” 

“ My  dear  Bingley,”  exclaimed  Belgrave,  “ surely  at  this  time  of 
day,  you  cannot  be  a stranger  to  the  unaccountable  caprices  of  the 
female  mind.” 

“’Tis  very  extraordinary  to  me,  I own,”  resumed  Sir  Charles, 
“that  Miss  Fitzalan  should  behave  as  she  did  to  you:  Were  you  and 
her  family  ever  very  intimate  ?” 

An  invidious  smile  lurked  on  Belgrave’s  countenance  at  this 
question. 

“Belgrave,”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  passionately,  “your  mannei 
appears  so  mysterious,  that  it  distracts  me;  if  friendship  will  not 
induce  you  to  accofint  for  it,  my  intentions  relative  to  Miss  Fitzalan, 
will  compel  me  to  insist  on  your  doing  so.” 

“ Come,  come,  Bingley,”  replied  the  colonel,  this  is  not  a country 
for  extorting  confession ; however  seriously  you  might  depend  on  my 
honour,  exclusive  of  my  friendship,  to  conceal  nothing  from  you,  in 
which  you  were  materially  interested.”  So  saying,  he  snatched 
away  his  arm,  rushed  into  the  crowd,  and  disappeared. 

This  assurance,  however,  could  not  calm  the  disquietude  of  Sir 
Charles ; his  soul  was  tortured  with  impatience  and  anxiety  f(;r  an 
explanation  of  the  mystery  which  the  agitation  of  Amanda,  and  the 
evasive  answers  of  Belgrave  had  betrayed.  He  sought  the  latter 
through  the  room,  till  convinced  of  his  departure,  and  resolved  the 
next  morning  to  entreat  him  to  deal  candidly  with  him. 

Agreeably  to  this  resolution,  he  was  preparing,  after  breakfa.st,  for 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


265 


his  ;T[sit,  when  a letter  was  brought  him,  which  contained  the  foLow- 
ing  lines : 

“If  Sir  Charles  Bingley  has  the  least  regard  for  his  honour  oi 
tranquillity,  he  will  immediately  relinquish  his  attentions  relative 
to  Miss  Fitxalan ; this  caution  comes  from  a sincere  friend,  from  a 
person  whose  delicacy,  not  want  of  veracity,  urges  to  this  secret 
mode  of  giving  it.” 

Sir  Charles  perused  and  re-perused  the  Utter,  as  if  doubting  the 
evidence  of  his  eyes:  he  at  last  flung  it  from  him,  and  clasping  his 
hands  together,  exclaimed,  “This  is  indeed  a horrible  explanation:” 
he  took  up  the  detested  paper:  again  he  examined  the  characters, 
and  recognized  the  writing  of  Colonel  Belgrave.  lie  hastily  snatched 
up  his  hat,  and  with  the  paper  in  his  hand,  flew  directly  to  his  house : 
the  colonel  was  alone. 

“lielgrave,”  said  Sir  Charles,  in  almost  breathless  agitation,  “are 
you  the  author  of  this  letter  ?”  presenting  it  to  him. 

Belgrave  took  it,  read  it,  but  continued  silent. 

“ Oh  I Belgrave,”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  in  a voice  trembling  with 
agony,  “ pity  and  relieve  my  suspense.” 

“ I am  the  author  of  it,”  replied  Belgrave,  with  solemnity,  “ Miss 
Fitzalan  and  I were  once  tenderly  attached ; I trust  I am  no  deliberate 
libertine ; but  when  a lovely  seducing  girl  was  thrown  purposely  in 
my  way ” 

“Oh,  stop,”  said  Sir  Charles,  “to  me  an  extenuation  of  your 
conduct  is  unnecessary;  ’tis  suflicient  to  know  that  Miss  Fitzalan  and 
I are  forever  separated.”  His  emotions  overpowered  hip-* ; he  leaned 
on  a table,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  handkerchief. 

“The  shock  I have  received,”  said  he,  “almost  unmans  me^ 
Amanda  was — alas,  I must  say,  is  dear,  inexpressibly  dear  to  my  soul: 
I thought  her  the  most  lovely,  the  most  estimable  of  women,  and  the 
anguish  I now  feel,  is  more  on  her  account  than  my  own ; I cannot 
bear  the  idea  of  the  contempt  which  may  fall  upon  her : Oh  Belgrave, 
Tis  melancholy  to  behold  a human  being  so  endowed  by  nature  as  she 
is,  insensible  or  unworthy  of  her  blessings.  Amanda,”  he  continued 
after  a pause,  “ never  encouraged  me,  I therefore  cannot  accuse  her  of 
intending  deceit.” 

“ She  never  encouraged  you,”  replied  Belgrave,  “ because  she  was 
ambitious  of  a higher  title ; Amanda  beneath  a specious  appearance 


284 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  innocence,  conceals  a light  disposition  and  a designing  heart ; eho 
aspires  to  Mortimer’s  hand,  and  may  probably  succeed,  for  his 
language  and  attentions  to  her  last  night,  were  those  cf  a tender 
lover.’ 

“ I shall  return  immediately  to  Ireland,”  said  Sir  Charles,  ‘‘  and 
endeavour  to  forget  I had  ever  seen  her ; she  has  made  me  indeed 
experience  all  the  fervency  of  love  and  bitterness  of  disappointment ; 
what  I felt  for  her,  I think  I shall  never  again  feel  for  any  woman.” 

I’ll  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 

And  on  my  eye-lids  shall  conjecture  hang, 

To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm. 

And  never  more  shall  it  be  gracious. 


Sir  Charles  Bingley,  and  Colonel  Belgrave,  in  early  life,  had 
contracted  a friendship  for  each  other,  which  time  had  strengthened 
in  one,  hut  reduced  to  a mere  shadow  in  the  other.  On  meeting  the 
colonel  unexpectedly  in  town.  Sir  Charles  had  informed  him  of  his 
intentions  relative  to  Amanda.  His  heart  throbbed  at  the  mention  of 
her  name,  he  had  long  endeavoured  to  discover  her ; pnde,  love  and 
revenge,  were  all  concerned  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  designs, 
which  disappointment  had  only  stimulated.  He  was  one  of  those 
determined  characters,  which  never  relinquish  a purpose,  “though 
heaven  and  earth  that  purpose  crost.”  The  confidence  Sir  Charles 
reposed  in  him,  joined  to  his  warm  and  unsuspicious  temper, 
convinced  him  he  would  he  credulous  enough  to  believe  any  imputa- 
tion he  should  cast  on  Amanda ; he  therefore  lost  no  time  in  contriving 
his  execrable  scheme,  without  the  smallest  compunction  for  destroying 
the  reputation  of  an  innocent  girl,  or  injuring  the  happiness  of  an 
amiable  man. 

Kemoved  from  the  protection  of  her  father,  he  believed  his  destined 
victim  could  not  escape  the  snare  he  should  spread  for  her : and  as  a 
means  of  expediting  his  success,  under  the  appearance  of  feeling, 
urged  Sir  Charles’s  return  to  Ireland.- 

The  easy  credit  which  Sir  Charles  gave  to  the  vile  allegations  of 
Belgrave,  cannot  be  wondered  at  when  his  long  intimacy,  and  total 
ignorance  of  his  real  character  is  considered.  He  knew  Belgrave  to 
be  a gay  man,  but  he  never  imagined  him  to  be  a hardened  libertine ; 
besides  he  never  could  have  supposed  any  man  would  have  been  so 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


265 


ftndacions,  or  sufficiently  base,  as  to  make  such  an  assertion  as 
Belgrave  had  done  against  Amanda,  without  truth  for  its  support. 

The  errors  of  his  friend,  though  the  source  of  unspeakable  anguish 
to  him,  were  more  pitied  than  condemned,  as  he  rather  believe  they 
proceeded  more  from  the  impetuosity  of  passion  than  the  deliberation 
of  design,  and  that  they  were  long  since  sincerely  repented  of. 

Amanda  could  not  be  forgotten,  the  hold  she  had  on  his  heart 
could  not  easily  be  shaken  off,  and  like  the  recording  angel,  he  was 
often  teiij]>ted  to  drop  a tear  over  her  faults,  and  obliterate  them  for 
ever  {rom  his  memory;  this,  however,  was  considered  the  mere 
fiEggestl  ui  of  weakness,  and  he  ordered  immediate  preparations  to  be 
m ^de  for  his  return  to  Ireland. 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

Oh  bow  this  tyrant  doubt  torments  my  breast, 

I ^ thoughts,  like  birds,  who  frightened  from  their  rest. 

Around  the  place  where  all  was  hush’d  before. 

Flutter,  and  hardly  settle  any  more. 

Otway. 

Lord  Moetimee,  distrest  by  the  indisposition  of  Amanda,  hastened, 
at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual  (for  his  morning  visits)  to  Portman 
Square,  and  was  ushered  into  Lady  Euphrasia’s  dressing  room,  where 
she  and  Miss  Malcolm,  who  had  continued  with  her  the  preceding 
night,  were  sitting  t^te-^-t^te  at  breakfast.  His  lordship  was  a wel- 
come visitor,  but  it  was  soon  obvious  on  whose  account  he  had  made 
his  appearance,  for  scarcely  were  the  usual  compliments  over,  ere  he 
inquired  about  Miss  Eitzalan. 

Lady  Euphrasia  said,  she  was  still  unweU,  and  had  not  yet  left  her 
apartment. 

‘‘  She  has  not  yet  recovered  the  surprise  of  last  night,”  exclaimed 
Miss  Malcolm  with  a malicious  smile. 

• ‘‘  What  surprise  ?”  asked  his  lordship. 

Dear  me,”  replied  Miss  Malcolm,  “ was  not  your  lordship  present 
at  the  time  she  met  Colonel  Belgrave  ?” 

‘‘  Ho,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  changing  colour,  “ I was  not  present ; 

12 


26G 


CHILDRE^f  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


But  what  has  Colonel  Belgrave  to  say  to  Miss  Bitzalan  ?”  asked  ho  in 
an  agitated  voice.  . 

“ That  is  a question  your  lordship  must  put  to  the  young  lady  her 
self,”  answered  Miss  Malcolm. 

“ .'N'ow  I declare,”  cried  Lady  Euphrasia,  addressing  her  friend, 
“ ’tis  very  probable  her  illness  did  not  proceed  from  seeing  Colone> 
Belgrave ; you  know  she  never  mentioned  being  acquainted  with  him, 
though  her  father  was  his  tenant  in  Devonshire.” 

Lord  Mortimer  grew  more  disturbed,  and  rose  abruptly. 

Lady  Euphrasia  mentioned  their  intention  of  going  that  evening  ta 
the  play,  and  invited  him  to  he  of  the  party : he  accepted  her  invita- 
tion and  retired. 

His  visible  distress  was  a source  of  infinite  mirth  to  the  young 
ladies,  which  they  indulged,  the  moment  he  quitted  the  room.  The 
circumstance  relative  to  Belgrave,  the  marchioness  had  informed 
them  of ; as  she  and  Lady  Greystock  were  near  Amanda  when  sha 
met  him. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  unhappy : the  mind  which  has  once  harhoureCi 
suspicion,  will,  from  the  most  trivial  circumstance,  be  tempted  again 
to  give  admission  to  the  unpleasing  guest:  nor  was  it  a trivial  cir- 
cumstance which  discomposed  the  too  susceptible  heart  of  Mortimer. 
The  sudden  illness  of  Amanda,  her  extraordinary  agitation,  her  eager- 
ness to  quit  the  room,  the  close,  though  silent  attendance  of  Belgrave; 
all  these,  I say,  when  recalled  to  recollection,  gave  an  air  of  probabil- 
ity to  Miss  Malcolm’s  insinuation,  that  her  disorder  was  occasioned  by 
seeing  him.  Erom  residing  more  constantly  in  England  than  Sir 
Charles  Bingley  had  done,  he  had  more  opportunities  of  learning 
Belgrave’s  real  character,  which  he  knew  to  he  that  of  a professed 
libertine.  It  was  strange,  he  thought,  that  when  Amanda  informed 
him  she  once  resided  in  Devonshire,  she  should  conceal  her  father’s 
being  the  colonel’s  tenant:  he  began  to  think  her  reluctance  to  a clan- 
destine and  immediate  marriage,  might  have  proceeded  from  some 
secret  attachment,  and  not  from  a strict  adherence  to  filial  duty, 
which  had  exalted  her  so  much  in  his  opinion. 

Yet  the  idea  was  scarcely  formed  ere  he  endeavoured  to  suppress 
it : he  started  as  if  from  an  uneasy  dream,  and  wondered  how  he 
could  have  conceived  this,  or  any  other  idea,  injurious  to  Amanda;  he 
felt  a degree  of  remorse  at  having  allowed  her,  for  a moment  to 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY/ 


267 


bo  lessened  in  his  opinion ; her  tenderness,  her  purity,  he  said  to  him- 
Belf,  could  not  be  feigned ; no,  she  "v^as  a treasure  greater  than  he 
deserved  to  possess ; nor  would  he,  like  a wayward  son  of  error,  fling 
away  the  happiness  he  had  so  long  desired  to  obtain. 

The  calm  this  resolution  produced  was  but  transient ; doubts  hao 
been  raised,  and  doubts  could  not  be  banished ; he  was  inclined  to 
think  them  unjust,  yet  had  not  power  to  dispel  them.  Yainly  he 
applied  to  the  ideas  which  had  heretofore  been  such  consolatory 
resources  of  comfort  to  him,  namely,  that  his  father  would  consent 
to  his  union  with  Amanda,  through  the  interference  of  his  aunt,  and 
the  felicity  he  should  enjoy  in  that  union  : an  unusual  heaviness  clung 
to  his  heart,  which  like  a gloomy  sky,  cast  a shade  of  sadness  over 
every  prospect.  Thoughtful  and  pensive  he  reached  home,  just  as  Sir 
Charles  Bingley  was  entering  the  door,  who  informed  him  he  had 
just  received  a note  from  Lord  Cherbury,  desiring  his  immediate 
presence. 

Lord  Mortimer  attended  him  to  the  earl,  who  acquainted  him  that 
he  had  received  a letter  from  Mr.  Fitzalan,  in  which  he  expressed  a 
warm  sense  of  the  honour  Sir  Charles  did  his  family,  by  addressing 
Miss  Fitzalan : and  that  to  have  her  united  to  a character  so  truly 
estimable  would  give  him  the  truest  happiness,  from  a conviction 
that  hers  would  be  secured  by  such  an  union.  “ He  has  written  to 
his  daughter,  expressing  his  sentiments,”  continued  Lord  Cherbury : 
“ I have  therefore  no  doubt.  Sir  Charles,  but  what  every  thing  will 
succeed  to  your  wish.” 

“ I am  sorry,  my  lord,”  cried  Sir  Charles,  with  an  agitated  voice, 
and  a cheek  flushed  with  emotion,  ‘‘  that  I ever  troubled  your  lord- 
ship  in  this  affair,  as  I have  now,  and  forever,  relinquished  all  ideas 
of  a union  with  Miss  Fitzalan.” 

‘‘The  resolution  is  really  somewhat  extraordinary  and  sudden,” 
replied  the  earl,  “after  the  conversation  which  so  lately  passed 
between  us.” 

“Adopted,  however,  my  lord,  from  a thorough  conviction  that 
happiness  could  never  be  attained  in  a union  with  that  young  lady.” 
Sir  Charles’s  tenderness  for  Amanda  was  still  undiminished:  he 
wished  to  preserve  her  from  censure,  and  thus  proceeded : 

“ Your  lordship  must  allow  that  I could  have  little  chance  of  hap- 
piness in  allying  myself  to  a woman  who  has  resolutely  and  uniformly 


268 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDEY. 


treated  me  with  indifference:  passion  blinded  my  reason,  when  I 
addressed  your  lordship  relative  to  Miss  Fitzalan,  but  its  mists  aro 
now  dispersed,  and  sober  reflection  obliges  me  to  relinquish  a scheme, 
whose  accomplishment  could  not  possibly  give  me  satisfaction.” 

‘‘  You  are  certainly  the  best  judge  of  your  own  actions.  Sir  Charles,” 
replied  the  earl ; ‘‘my  acting  in  the  affair  proceeded  from  a wish  to 
serve  you,  as- well  as  from  my  friendship  to  Captain  Fitzalan : I must 
suppose  your  conduct  will  never  disparage  your  own  honour,  or  cast 
a slight  upon  Miss  Fitzalan.” 

“ That,  my  lord,  you  may  be  assured  of,”  said  Sir  Charles,  with 
some  warmth,  “ my  actions  and  their  motives  have  hitherto,  and  will 
ever,  I trust,  bear  the  strictest  investigation.  I cannot  retire  without 
thanking  your  lordship  for  the  interest  you  took  in  my  favour ; had 
things  succeeded  as  I then  hoped  and  expected,  I cannot  deny  but  I 
should  have  been  much  happier  than  I am  at  present.”  He  then 
bowed  and  retired. 

Lord  Mortimer  had  listened  with  astonishment  to  Sir  Charles’s 
relinquishment  of  Amanda : like  his  father,  he  thought  At  a sudden 
and  extraordinary  resolution : he  was  before  jealous  of  Amanda’s 
love — he  was  now  jealous  of  her  honour.  The  agitation  of  Sir 
Charles  seemed  to  imply  even  a cause  more  powerful  than  her  cold- 
ness, for  resigning  her ; he  recollected  that  the  baronet  and  the  col- 
onel were  intimate  friends : distracted  by  apprehensions,  he  rushed 
out  of  the  house,  and  overtook  Sir  Charles  ere  he  had  quitted  the 
square. 

“Why,  Bingley,”  cried  he,  with  affected  gaiety,  “I  thought  you 
too  valiant  a knight  to  be  easily  overcome  by  despair ; and  that  with- 
out first  trying  every  effort  to  win  her  favour,  you  never  would 
give  up  a fair  lady  you  had  set  your  heart  on.” 

“ I leave  such  efforts  for  your  lordship,”  replied  Sir  Charles,  “ or 
those  who  have  equal  patience.” 

“ But  seriously,  Bingley,  I think  this  sudden  resignation  of  Miss 
Fitzalan  somewhat  strange : why,  last  night  I could  ha%j^  sworn  you 
were  as  much  attached  to  her  as  ever.  From  Lord  Cherbury’s  friend- 
ship for  Captain  Fitzalan,  I think  her  in  some  degree  under  his 
protection  and  mine  ; and  as  the  particularity  of  your  attentions 
attracted  observation,  I think  your  abruptly  witbib’awing  them 
requires  explanation.” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


269 


‘"As  Lord  Cherbury  was  the  person  I applied  to,  relative  to  Miss 
Fitzalan^”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  “ and  as  he  was  satisfied  with  the 
motive  I assigned  for  my  conduct,  he  assured,  my  lord,  I shall  nevei 
give  another  to  you.” 

“Your  words,”  retorted  Lord  Mortimer,  with  warmth,  “imply 
that  there  was  another  motive  for  your  conduct,  than  the  one  you 
avowed : what  horrid  inference  may  not  be  drawn  from  such  an 
insinuation  ? Oh,  Sir  Charles,  reputation  is  a fragile  fiower,  which 
the  slightest  breath  may  injure.” 

“ My  lord,  if  Miss  Fitzalan’s  reputation  is  never  injured  but  by  my 
means,  it  will  ever  continue  unsullied.” 

“I  cannot,  indeed,”  resumed  Lord  Mortimer,  “style  myself  her 
guardian,  but  I consider  myself  her  friend ; and  from  the  feelings  of 
friendship,  shall  ever  evince  my  interest  in  her  welfare  and  resent 
any  ccaiduct  which  can  possibly  render  her  an  object  of  censure  to 
any  being.” 

“ Allow  me  to  ask  your  lordship  one  question,”  cried  Sir  Charles, 
‘^and  promise,  on  your  honour,  to  answer  it.” 

“I  do  promise,”  said  Lord  Mortimer. 

“Then,  my  lord,  did  you  ever  really  wish  I should  succeed  with 
Miss  Fitzalan  ?” 

Lord  Mortimer  coloured,  “ You  expect.  Sir  Charles,  I shall  answer 
you  on  my  honour  ? Then  really  I never  did.” 

“ Your  passions  and  mine,”  continued  Sir  Charles,  “ are  impetuous ; 
we  had  better  check  them  in  time,  lest  they  lead  us  to  lengths  we 
may  hereafter  repent  of.  Of  Miss  Fitzalan’s  fame,  be  assured  no  man 
could  bo  more  tenacious  than  I should : I love  her  with  the  truest 
ardour  ; — ^her  acceptance  of  my  proposals  would  have  given  me 
felicity: — ^rny  suddenly  withdrawing  them,  can  never  injure  her, 
when  I declare  my  motive  for  so  doing,  was  her  indifference.  Lord 
Cherbury  is  satisfied  with  the  reason  I have  assigned  for  resigning 
her;  he  is  conscious  that  no  man  of  sensibility  could  experience 
happiness  with  a woman,  in  whose  heart  he  knew  he  had  no  interest; 
this,  I suppose,  your  lordship  will  allow.” 

“ C rtainly,”  replied  Lord  Mortimer. 

“ Then  it  strikes  me,  my  lord,  that  it  is  your  conduct,  not  mine, 
which  has  a,  tendency  to  injure  Miss  Fitzalan : that  it  is  your  words, 
not  mine,  "which  convey  an  insinuation  against  her  ; you  really 


2^0  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

appear  arf  if  conscious  some  other  cause  existed,  which  would  have 
made  me  relinquish  her,  without  the  one  I have  already  assigned  for 
doing  so.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  instantly  convinced  of  the  justice  of  what  Sir 
Charles  said  ; he  began  to  fear  his  warmth  would  really  prove 
prejudicial  to  Amanda;  betray  the  doubts  which  had  obtruded  on 
his  mind,  and  communicate  them  to  those  who  might  not  be  equally 
influenced  by  tenderness  and  delicacy  to  conceal  them. 

“ You  are  right.  Sir  Charles,”  said  he,  “ in  what  you  have  said , 
passion,  like  a had  advocate,  hurts  the  cause  in  which  it  is  engaged. 
From  my  knowledge  of  your  character,  I should  have  been  convinced 
your  honour  would  have  prevented  any  improper  conduct.  You  are 
going  to  Ireland ; permit  me,  Sir  Charles,  to  offer  you  my  best  wishes 
for  your  future  happiness.” 

Sir  Charles  took  Lord  Mortimer’s  extended  hand: — ^he  respected 
and  esteemed  his  lordship,  and  a mutual  interchange  of  good  wishes 
took  place  between  them,  as  this  was  the  last  interview  they  expected 
for  a long  time. 

The  indisposition  of  Amanda  was  more  of  the  mental  than  the 
bodily  kind,  and  on  the  first  intimation  of  a party  to  the  play,  she 
agreed  to  join  it,  in  hopes  the  amusement  would  remove  her  dejec- 
tion. Her  father’s  letter,  relative  to  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  had  given 
her  some  uneasiness,  hut  as  he  left  her  free  to  act,  she  contented 
herself  with  using  the  negative  he  allowed  her,  by  a solemn  resolu- 
tion of  never  acting  contrary  to  his  inclination,  and  answered  his 
letter  to  thir  purpose. 

Lord  Mortimer  and  Freelove  attended  the  ladies  in  the  evening  to 
the  play.  His  lordship  found  an  opportunity  of  tenderly  inquiring 
after  Amanda’s  health. — When  they  were  seated  in  the  house,  he 
perceived  a lady  in  another  box,  to  whom  he  wished  to  speak,  and 
accordingly  left  his  party.  The  lady  offered  him  a seat  by  herself, 
which  he  accepted.  She  was  a stranger  to  Amanda,  young,  and 
extremely  beautiful. — ^Amanda,  however,  had  none  of  that  foolish 
weakness  which  could  make  her  dread  a rival  in  every  new  face,  or 
feel  uneasiness  at  Lord  Mortimer’s  attention  to  any  woman  but  her 
self ; assured  that  his  affections  for  her  were  founded  on  the  basis  of 
esteem,  and  that  she  would  retain  them  while  worthy  of  esteem,  sho 
without  being  discomposed  by  the  agreeable  conversation  ho 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


271 


appeared  enjoying,  fix  her  attentions  on  the  stage ; so  entiiely,  indeed, 
that  she  observed  not,  from  time  to  time,  tho  glances  Lord  Mortimer 
directed  towards  her : not  so  his  fair  companion ; she  noticed  the 
wanderings  of  his  eyes,  and  her  own  involuntarily  pursued  their 
course.  She  was  speaking  at  the  moment,  but  suddenly  stopped,  and 
Lord  Mortimer  saw  her  change  colour.  He  turned  pale  himself,  and 
in  a faltering  voice  asked  her,  “ if  she  knew  the  lady  she  had  been 
looking  at?” 

“Know  her?”  replied  she,  “oh  heavens  I but  too  well.” 

Lord  Mortimer  trembled  universally,  and  was  compelled  to  have 
recourse  to  Lis  handkerchief,  to  hide  his  emotion. 

It  was  by  Adela,  the  lovely  and  neglected  wife  of  Belgrave,  he  was 
sitting ; she  had  been  a short  time  in  London,  and  her  acquaintance 
with  Lord  Mortimer  commenced  at  a ball,  where  she  had  danced 
with  1 im.  He  was  not  one  of  those  kind  of  men  who  when  in  love 
hav'>  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  but  for  the  object  of  that  love;  he  could 
see  perfections  in  other  women  besides  his  Amanda,  and  was  particu- 
larly well  pleased  with  Mrs.  Belgrave.  He  instantly  perceived  that 
she  knew  Amanda;  also,  that  that  knowledge  was  attended  with 
pain.  The  well  known  profiigacy  of  her  husband  intruded  on  his 
memory,  and  he  shuddered  at  the  dreadful  thoughts  which  arose  in 
his  mind. 

Curiosity  had  directed  the  eyes  of  Adela  to  Amanda,  but  an  admira- 
tion, and  an  idea  of  having  somewhere  before  seen  her  face,  riveted 
them  upon  her;  at  last  the  picture  Oscar  Fitzalan  had  shown, 
occurred  to  her  recollection,  and  she  was  immediately  convinced  it 
was  no  other  than  the  original  of  that  picture  she  now  saw.  Shocked 
at  the  sight  of  a person,  who  as  she  thought,  had  stepped  (though 
innocently)  between  her  and  her  felicity ; and  distressed  by  the  emo- 
tions wdiich  past  scenes  thus  recalled  gave  rise  to,  she  entreated  Lord 
Mortimer  to  conduct  her  from  the  box,  that  she  might  return  home. 

He  complied  with  her  request,  but  stopped  in  the  lobby,  and 
entreated  her  to  tell  him  “ where  she  had  known  the  lady  she  had  so 
attentively  regarded.”  Adela  blushed,  and  would,  if  possible,  have 
evaded  the  question ; but  the  earnestness  of  his  lordship’s  manner, 
compelled  her  to  answer  it.  She  said  “ she  had  no  personal  knowledge 
tL  thf»  lady,  but  recollected  her  face,  from  having  seen  her  picture 
with  a gentleman.” 


272 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


‘‘And  who  was  the  gentleman?”  ashed  Lord  Mortimer,  with  a 
forced  smile,  and  a faltering  voice. 

“That,”  replied  Adela,  with  involuntary  quickness,  “I  will  not 
tell.” 

“ T should  apologize,  indeed,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  recollecting 
himself,  “for  a curiosity  which  may  appear  impertinent.”  He  led 
her  to  a chair,  and  deliberated  whether  he  should  not  follow  her 
example  in  quitting  the  house.  * 

Miss  Malcolm  had  first  made  him  uneasy;  uneasiness  introduced 
doubts,  which  Sir  Charles  Bingley  had  increased,  and  Mrs.  Belg:ave 
almost  confirmed.  He  dreaded  a horrid  confirmation  of  bis  fears ; the 
picture,  like  Othello’s  handkerchief,  was  a source  of  unspeakable 
anguish.  The  agitation  that  Mrs.  Belgrave  had  betrayed,  on  men- 
tioning it,  joined  to  her  concealment  of  the  gentleman  she  liad  seen  it 
with,  tempted  him  to  believe  he  was  no  other  than  her  husbanl. 

Yet,  that  he  might  not  be  accused  of  yielding  rashly  to  jealousy, 
ne  resolved  to  confine  his  suspicions,  like  his  pangs,  to  his  own 
bosom,  except  assured  they  were  well  founded ; a little  time,  he  sup- 
posed would  determine  the  opinion  he  should  form  of  Amanda.  If 
he  found  she  encouraged  Belgrave,  he  resolved  to  leave  her  without 
an  explanation ; if,  on  the  contrary,  he  saw  that  she  avoided  him,  he 
meant  to  mention  the  circumstance  of  the  picture  to  her,  yet  so  as 
not  to  hurt  her  feelings,  and  be  regulated  by  her  answer,  relative  to 
his  future  conduct.  He  returned  at  last  to  the  box,  and  procured  a 
seat  behind  her.  He  had  not  occupied  it  long,  ere  Colonel  Belgrava 
(who  from  a retired  part  of  the  house,  where  he  sat  with  some 
female  friends,  had  observed  Amanda)  entered  the  next  box,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  pillar  against  which  she  leaned.— He  endea- 
voured to  catch  her  eyes,  but  the  noise  he  made  on  entering  put  her 
on  her  guard,  and  she  instantly  averted  her  face.  Her  embarrass- 
ment was  visible  to  her  party,  and  they  all.  Lord  Mortimer  excepted, 
enjoyed  it ; scarcely  could  he  refrain  from  chastising  the  audacity  of 
Belgrave’s  looks,  who  still  continued  to  gaze  on  Amanda,  though  he 
could  not  see  her  face ; nothing  but  the  discovery  which  such  a step 
would  produce,  could  have  prevented  his  lordship,  in  his  present 
irritable  state  of  mind,  from  chastising  what  he  deemed  the  height 
of  insolence. 

At  last  the  hour  came  for  relieving  Amanda  from  a situation 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


27S 


extremely  painful  to  her.  As  Lord  Mortimer  sat  next  the  maz-ciiio- 
ness,  he  was  compelled  to  offer  her  his  hand.  Freelove-led  Lady 
Euphrasia ; Lady  Greystock  and  Miss  Malcolm  followed  her,  and 
Amanda  was  the  last  who  quitted  the  box.  A crowd  in  the  lobby 
impeded  their  progress.  Amanda  was  close  behind  the  marchioness, 
when  Belgrave  forced  his  way  to  her,  and  attempted  to  take  her  hand 
at  the  very  moment  Lord  Mortimer  turned  to  look  at  her,  who  heard 
him  say,  “ Dear,  though  unkind  Amanda,  why  this  cruel  change  in 
your  conduct  ? 

The  eyes  of  Mortimer  flashed  fire:  “Miss  Fitzalan,^^  said  he,  in  a 
voice  trembling  through  passion,  “ if  you  will  accept  my  arm  I will 
make  way  for  you,  or  at  least  secure  you  from  impertinence.^^ 
Amanda,  though  trembling  and  confounded  by  his  looks,  hesitated 
not  to  accept  his  offer.  Belgrave  knew  his  words  alluded  to  him  ; at 
present,  however,  he  resolved  not  to  resent  them,  convinced  that  if  he 
did,  his  views  on  Amanda  would  be  defeated.  From  that  moment 
her  beauty  was  not  more  powerful  in  stimulating  his  designs,  than 
his  desire  of  revenge  on  Lord  Mortimer  j he  saw  he  was  fondly 
attached  to  Amanda,  and  he  believed  his  proud  heart  would  feel  no 
event  so  afilictive  as  that  which  should  deprive  him  of  her. 

Lord  Mortimer  handed  Amanda  to  the  carriage ; he  was  pressed  to 
return  to  supper,  but  refused.  The  ladies  found  the  marquis  and 
Lord  Cherbury  together. — Amanda  retired  to  her  chamber  imme- 
diately after  supper;  the  presence  of  Belgrave  had  increased  the 
dejection  which  she  hoped  the  amusements  of  the  theatre  would 
have  dissipated ; she  now,  indeed,  longed  for  the  period  when  she 
should  be  entitled  to  the  protection  of  Lord  Mortimer ; when  she 
should  no  longer  dread  the  audacity  or  stratagems  of  Belgrave. 
Lord  Cherbury,  on  her  retiring,  expressed  his  regret  at  her  coldness 
to  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  by  which  she  had  lost  a most  honourable  and 
advantageous  attachment. 

This  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  neglected  by  the  marchioness, 
for  commencing  her  operations  against  Fitzalan.  A glance  to  Lady 
Greystock  was  the  signal  to  begin. 

“ To  those,^^  said  Lady  Greystock,  “ who  are  ignorant  of  Miss 
Fitzalan^s  real  motives  for  refusing  Sir  Charles,  it  must  appear,  no 
doubt,  extraordinary : but  ambitious  people  are  not  easily  satisfied, 

12* 


274 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


Indeed  1 cannot  Liame  her  so  much  for  entertaining  aspiring  notions, 
as  those  who  instilled  them  into  her  mind. 

Lord  Oherbury  started,  and  requested  an  explanation  of  her  words. 

“ Why  I declare,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  ‘‘  I do  not  know  hut  that  it 
will  be  more  friendly  to  explain  than  conceal  my  meaning ; when 
once  informed  of  the  young  lady’s  views,  your  lordship  may  be  able 
to  convince  her  of  her  fallacy,  and  prevail  on  her  not  to  lose  another 
good  opportunity  of  settling  herself  in  consequence  of  them;  in  short, 
my  lord.  Miss  Fitzalan,  prompted  by  her  father,  has  ca.:t  her  eyes  on 
Lord  Mortimer : presuming  on  your  friendship,  he  thought  a union 
between  them  might  easily  be  accomplished.  I do  not  believe  Lord 
Mortimer  at  first  gave  any  encouragement  to  their  designs ; but  when 
the  girl  was  thrown  continually  in  his  way,  it  was  impossible  not  to 
notice  her  at  last.  I really  expressed  a thorough  disj  “x- jobation  to 
her  coming  to  London,  knowing  their  motives  for  desir. . g tne  excur- 
sion, but  her  father  never  ceased  persecuting  me,  till  I consented  to 
take  her  under  my  protection.” 

“ Upon  my  word,”  cried  the  marquis,  who  was  not  of  the  ladies’ 
privy  council,  though,  if  he  had,  it  is  probable  he  would  not  have 
objected  to  their  schemes,  “Captain  Fitzalan  must  have  had  some 
such  motive  as  this  Lady  Greystock  has  mentioned  for  sending  his 
daughter  to  London,  or  else  he  would  not  have  been  sp  ridiculous  as 
to  put  himself  to  the  expense  of  fitting  her  out  for  company  she  har» 
no  right  to  enter.” 

“ I never  thought,”  exclaimed  Lord  Cherbury,  whose  mind 
irritated  to  the  most  violent  degree  of  resentment  against  his  injured 
friend,  “ that  Captain  Fitzalan  could  have  acted  with  coich  duplicity. 
He  knew  the  views  I entertained  for  my  son:  there  is  a mean 
treachery  in  his  attempting  to  counteract  them.” 

“ Hay,  iny  lord,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “ you  are  a father  yourself, 
and  must  make  allowances  for  the  anxiety  of  a parent  to  establish  a 
child.” 

“ Ho,  madam,”  he  replied,  “ I can  make  no  allowance  for  a devia- 
tion from  integrity,  or  for  a sacrifice  of  honour  and  gratitude  at  the 
shrne  of  interest.  The  subject  has  discomposed  me,  a .d  I L,t  beg 
to  be  excused  for  abruptly  retiring : nothing,  indeed,  I believe,  can 
wound  one  so  severely  as  deceit,  where  one  reposed  implicit 
confidence.” 


275 


1 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 

The  Indies  were  enraptured  at  the  success  of  their  sciieine.  The 
passion  of  Lord  Cherhury  could  scarcely  be  smothered  in  their 
presence.  On  the  liead  of  Fitzalan  they  knew  it  would  burst  with 
full  violence.  They  did  not  mention  Belgrave ; relative  to  him  they 
resolved  to  affect  profound  ignorance. 

The  passions  of  Lord  Cherhury  were  impetuous.  He  had,  as  1 
have  already  hinted,  secret  motives  for  desiring  a connection  between 
his  family  and  the  marquis’s ; and  the  idea  of  that  desire  being 
defeated  drove  him  almost  to*  distraction.  He  knew  his  son’s  pas- 
sions, though  not  so  easily  irritated  as  his  own,  were,  when  once  irri- 
tated, equally  violent.  To  remonstrate  with  him  concerning  Miss 
Fitzalan,  he  believed,  would  be  unavailing ; he  therefore  resolved,  if 
Dossible,  to  have  her  removed  out  of  his  way,  ere  he  apprised  him  of 
the  discovery  he  had  made  of  his  attachment.  He  entertained  not  a 
doubt  of  Lady  Greystock’s  veracity  ; from  his  general  knowledge  of 
mankind,  he  believed  self  the  predominant  consideration  in  every 
breast.  His  feelings  were  too  violent  not  to  seek  an  immediate  vent, 
and  ere  he  went  to  bed,  he  wrote  a bitter  and  reproachful  letter  to 
Fitzalan,  which  concluded  with  an  entreaty,  or  rather  a command,  to 
send  without  delay  for  his  daughter.  A dreadful  stroke  this  for 
poor  Fitzalan. 


After  all  his  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care. 
And  all  his  griefs. 


he  hoped  he  had  at  last  found  a spot,  where  his  latter  days  might 
close  in  tranquillity. 

The  innocent  Amanda  was  received  the  next  morning  with  smiles, 
by  those  who  were  preparing  a plot  for  her  destruction. 

Whilst  at  breakfast,  a servant  informed  Lady  Greystock  a young 
woman  wanted  to  speak  to  her. 

“Who  is  she?”  asked  her  ladyship;  “did  she  not  send  up  her 
name  ?” 

“Ko,  my  lady,  but  she  said  she  had  particular  business  with  your 
ladyship.” 

The  marchioness  directed  she  might  be  shown  up,  and  a girl  about 
seventeen  was  accordingly  ushered  into  the  room.  Her  figure  was 
delicate,  and  her  face  interesting,  not  only  from  its  innocence,  but  the 
strong  expression  of  melancholy  diffused  over  it.  She  appeared 


176  CHILDREN  OF  THE  A BLEY 

trembling  with  confusion  and  timidity,  and  the  poverty  of  hor 
apparel  implied  the  source  of  her  dejection. 

^‘So,  child,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  after  surveying  W from  head 
to  foot,  “ I am  told  you  have  business  with  me.” 

‘‘Yes,  madam,”  replied  she,  in  an  accent  so  low  as  scarcely  to  bo 
heard ; “ my  father.  Captain  Rushbrook,  desired  me  to  deliver  a letter 
to  your  ladyship.” 

She  presented  it,  and  endeavoured  to  screen  herself  from  the  scru- 
tinizing and  contemptuous  glances  of  Lady  Euphrasia  by  pulling  her 
hat  over  her  face. 

‘‘  I wonder,  child,”  said  Lnd j Greystock,  as  she  opened  the  letter, 
“ what  your  father  can  write  to  me  about.  I don’t  suppose  it  can  be 
about  the  affair  he  mentioned  the  other  day. — Why,  really,”  contin- 
ued she,  after  she  had  perused  it,  “I  believe  he  takes  me  for  a fool ; 
I am  astonished,  after  his  insolent  conduct,  how  he  can  possibly  have 
the  assurance  to  make  application  to  me  for  relief ; no,  no,  child,  he 
neglected  the  opportunity  he  had  of  securing  me  as  his  friend ; it  would 
really  be  a sin  to  give  him  the  power  ot  bringing  up  his  family  in 
idleness ; no,  no,  child,  he  must  learn  you,  and  the  other  little  dainty 
misses  he  has,  to  do  something  for  yourselves.” 

The  poor  girl  blushed ; a tear  trembled  in  her  eye,  she  tided  to 
suppress  it,  but  it  forced  its  way,  and  dropped  into  her  bosom. 
Amanda,  inexpressibly  shocked,  could  support  the  scene  no  longer ; 
she  retired  precipitately,  and  descended  to  the  parlour ; sympathy  as 
well  as  compassion  made  her  it?el  for  this  daughter  of  affliction,  for 
she  herself  knew  wfflat  it  was  to  feel  the  insolence  of  prosperity,  the 
proud  man’s  scorn,  and  all  those  ills  which  patient  merit  of  the  un- 
worthy takes.” 

In  a few  minutes  Miss  Rushbrook  quitted  the  drawing-room  and 
stopped  in  the  hall  to  wipe  away  her  tears.  Amanda  had  been  watch- 
ing for  her,  and  now  appeared.  She  started  ana  was  hurrying  away, 
when  Amanda  caught  her  hand,  and,  leading  her  softly  to  the  parlour, 
endeavoured  with  angelic  sweetness,  to  calm  her  emotion.  Suiqirised 
at  this  unexpected  attention,  and  overcome  by  her  feelings,  the  poor 
girl  sunk  on  her  chair,  and  dropping  her  head  on  Amanda’s  bosom, 
wet  it  with  a shower  of  tears,  as  she  exclaimed,  Alas  ! my  unforta- 
nate  parents,  how  can  I return  to  behold  your  misery?  the  grave  iB 
the  only  refuge  for  you  and  your  wretched  children.” 


CniLDRENGF  THE  ABBEY. 


27? 


“You  must  not  encourage  such  desponding  thoughts,”  said 
Amanda;  “Providence,  all  bounteous,  and  all  powerful,  is  able  in  a 
short  time  to  change  the  gloomiest  scene  into  one  of  brightness.  Tell 
me,^'  she  continued,  after  a pause,  “ where  do  you  reside?” 

“ At  Kensington.” 

“ Kensington,”  repeated  Amanda,  “ surely  in  your  present  situa- 
tion, you  are  unable  to  take  such  a walk.” 

“ I must  attempt  it,  however,”  replied  Miss  Eushbrook. 

Amanda  walked  from  her  to  the  window,  revolving  a scheme 
which  had  just  darted  into  her  mind ; “ If  you  know  any  house,” 
said  she,  “ where  you  could  stay  for  a short  time,  I would  call  on  you 
in  a carriage  and  leave  you  at  home.”  . - 

This  offer  was  truly  pleasing  to  the  poor,  weak,  trembling  girl,  but 
she  modestly  declined  it,  from  the  fear  of  giving  trouble.  Amanda 
besought  her  not  to  waste  time  in  such  unnecessary  scruples,  but  to 
give  her  the  desired  information. 

She  accordingly  informed  her  there  was  a haberdasher’s  in  Bond- 
street,  mentioning  the  name,  where  she  could  stay  till  called  for. 

This  point  settled,  Amanda,  fearful  of  being  surprised,  conducted 
her  softly  to  the  hall-door,  and  immediately  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room, where  she  found  Lady  Euphrasia  just  begining  to  read  Kush- 
brook’s  letter,  for  her  mother’s  amusement. 

Its  style  evidently  denoted  the  painful  conflicts  there  were  between 
pride  aud  distress,  ere  the  former  could  be  sufficiently  subdued  to 
allow  an  application  for  relief  to  the  person  who  had  occasioned  the 
latter ; the  sight  of  a tender  and  beloved  wife  languishing  in  the  arms 
of  sickness,  surrounded  by  a family  under  the  pressure  of  the  severest 
want,  had  forced  him  to  a step  which,  on  his  own  account,  no  neces- 
sity could  have  compelled  him  to  take.  He  and  his  family,  he  said, 
had  drank  the  cup  of  misery  to  the  very  dregs  : he  waved  the  claims 
of  justice,  he  only  asserted  those  of  humanity,  in  his  present  applica- 
tion to  her  ladyship ; and  these  he  flattered  himself  she  would  allow ; 
he  had  sent  a young  petitioner  in  his  behalf;  whose  tearful  eyes, 
whose  faded  cheek,  were  sad  evidences  of  the  misery  he  described. 

The  marchioness  declared  she  was  astonished  at  his  insolence  in 
making  such  an  application,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  protested  it  was  the 
most  ridiculous  stuff  she  had  ever  read. 

Amanda,  in  this,  as  well  as  many  other  instances,  differed  from  her 


f78  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDET. 

ladyship ; but  her  opinion,  like  a little  project  she  had  id  view  ahont 
the  Eushbrooks,  was  carefully  concealed. 

Out  of  the  allowance  her  father  made  her  for  clothes,  and  other 
expenses,  about  ten  guineas  remained,  which  she  had  intended  laying 
out  in  the  purchase  of  some  ornaments  for  her  appearance  at  a hall  to 
he  given  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week,  by  the  duchess  of 

B ^ and  for  which  at  the  time  of  invitation.  Lord  Mortimer  had 

engaged  her  for  his  partner : to  give  up  going  to  this  ball,  to  conse- 
crate to  charity  the  money  devoted  to  vanity,  was  her  project ; and 
most  fortunate  did  she  deem  the  application  of  Kushbrook,  ere  her 
purchase  was  made,  and  she  consequently  prevented  from  giving  her 
mite.  Her  soul  revolted  from  the  inhumanity  of  the  marchioness,  her 
daughter  and  Lady  Greystock.  Exempt  from  the  calamities  of  want 
themselves,  they  forgot  the  pity  due  to  those  calamities  in  others.  If 
this  coldness,  this  obduracy,  she  cried  within  herself,  is  the  effect  of 
prosperity : if  thus  it  closes  the  avenues  of  benevolence  and  compas- 
sion, oh ! never  may  the  dangerous  visitor  approach  me,  for  ill  should 
I think  the  glow  of  compassion,  and  sensibility  exchanged  for  aU  its 
gaudy  pleasures. 

The  ladies  had  mentioned  their  intention  of  going  to  an  auction, 
where,  to  use  Lady  Euphrasia’s  phrase,  “ they  expected  to  see.  all  the 
world.”  Amanda  excused  herself  from  being  of  the  party,  saying,  she 
wanted  to  make  some  purchases  in  the  city.  Her  excuse  was  readily 
admitted,  and  when  they  retired  to  their  respective  toilets,  she  sent 
for  a carriage,  and  being  prepared  against  it  came,  immediately  stept 
into  it,  and  was  driven  to  Bond  street,  where  she  found  Miss  Rush- 
brook  with  trembling  anxiety  waiting  her  arrival. 

In  their  way  to  Kensington,  the  tenderness  of  Amanda  at  once 
conciliated  the  affection,  and  gained  the  entire  confidence  of  her 
young  companion.  She  related  the  little  history  of  her  parent’s 
sorrows.  Her  father  on  returning  from  America,  with  his  wife  and 
six  children,  had  been  advised  by  Mr.  Heathfield,  the  friend  who  had 
effected  a reconciliation  between  him  and  his  uncle,  to  commence  a 
suit  against  Lady  Greystock,  on  the  presumption  that  the  will,  by 
which  she  enjoyed  Sir  Geoffry’s  fortune,  was  illegally  executed.  He 
offered  him  his  purse  to  carry  on  the  suit,  and  his  house  for  a habita- 
tion. Rusbrook  gratefully  and  gladly  accepted  both  offers,  and  having 
disposed  of  his  commission,  to  discharge  some  present  derewida 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


279 


against  him,  he  and  his  family  took  up  their  residence  under  Mr 
Heathfield’s  hospitable  roof.  In  the  midst  of  the  felicity  enjoyed 
beneath  it;  in  the  midst  of  the  hopes  of  their  own  sanguine  tempers, 
and  the  flattering  suggestions  the  lawyers  had  excited,  a violent  fever 
carried  oft*  their  benevolent  friend  ere  the  will  was  executed,  in  which 
ke  had  promised  largely  to  consider  Rushbrook.  His  heir,  narrow 
and  illiberal,  had  long  feared  that  his  interest  would  be  hurt  by 
tl)0  afifection  he  entertained  for  Rushbrook;  and  as  if  in  revenge 
for  the  pain  this  fear  had  given,  the  moment  he  had  power  to  show 
his  malignant  disposition,  sold  all  the  furniture  of  the  house  at  Ken- 
sington, and,  as  a great  favour,  told  Rushbrook  he  might  continue  in 
it  till  the  expiration  of  the  half  year,  when  it  was  to  be  given  up  to 
the  landlord.  The  lawyers  understanding  the  state  of  his  finances, 
soon  informed  liim  he  could  no  longer  expect  their  assistance.  Thus, 
almost  in  one  moment,  did  all  ins  pleasing  prospects  vanish,  and. 

Like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a vision,  left  not  a wreck  behind. 

As  a duty  he  owed  his  family,  he  tried  whether  Lady  Greystock 
would  make  a compromise  between  justice  and  avarice,  and  afford 
him  some  means  of  support.  Her  insolence  and  inhumanity  shocked 
him  to  the  soul ; and  as  he  left  her  presence,  he  resolved  never  to 
enter  it  again,  or  apply  to  her : this  last  resolution,  however,  only 
continued  till  the  distress  of  his  family  grew  so  great  as  to  threaten 
their  existence,  particularly  that  of  his  wife,  who,  overpowered  by 
grief,  had  sunk  into  a languishing  illness,  which  every  day  increased 
for  want  of  proper  assistance. 

In  hopes  of  procuring  her  some,  he  was  tempted  again  to  apply  to 
Lady  Greystock.  The  youth  and  innocence  of  his  daughter  would, 
he  thought,  if  anything  could  do  it,  soften  her  flinty  heart ; besides,  he 
believed  that  pleasure,  at  finding  his  pretensions  to  the  fortune  entirely 
withdrawn,  would  influence  her  to  administer  from  it  to  his  wants. 

‘‘  We  have,^^  said  Miss  Rushbrook,  as  she  concluded  her  simple  nar- 
ration, tried,  and  been  disappointed  in  our  last  resource : what  will 
become  of  us  I know  not ; we  have  long  been  strangers  to  the  com- 
forts, but  even  the  necessaries  of  life  we  cannot  now  procure.^^ 

“ Comfort,^'  cried  Amanda,  ‘‘  often  arrives  when  least  expected : to 
despair  is  to  doubt  the  goodness  of  a Being  who  has  promised  to  pro- 
tect all  his  creatures.^' 

The  carriage  had  now  reached  Kensington,  and  within  a few  yards 


280 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


of  Euslibrook’s  habitation,  Amanda  stopt  it ; she  took  Miss  Ensh- 
brook’s  hand,  and  as  she  slipt  a ten  pound  note  into  it^  exclaimed,  “I 
trust  the  period  is  not  far  distant,  when  the  friendsiiip  we  ha;^c 
conceived  for  each  other,  may  be  cultivated  under  nioxe  fortu-  f.te 
auspices.” 

Miss  Eushbrook  opened  the  folded  paper;  she  started  and  “the 
hectic  of  a moment  flushed  her  cheek.”  “ Oh  I madam,”  she  cned, 

“ your  goodness — ” tears  impeded  her  further  utterance. 

“Do  not  distress  me,”  said  Amanda,  again  taking  her  hand,  “by 
mentioning  such  a trifle ; was  my  ability  equal  to  my  inclination,  I 
should  blush  to  offer  it  to  your  acceptance : as  it  is,  consider  it  but  as 
the  foretaste  of  the  bounty  which  heaven  has,  I doubt  not,  in  store  for 
you.” 

She  then  desired  the  door  to  be  opened,  and  told  her  companion 
she  would  no  longer  detain  her.  Miss  Eushbrook  afiectionately  kissed 
her  hand  and  exclaimed,  “You  look  like  an  angel,  and  your  goodness 
is  correspondent  to  your  looks,  I will  not,  madam,  retuse  your  bounty; 

I accept  it  with  gratitude,  for  those  dearer  to  me  than  myself:  but 
ah!  may  I not  indulge  a hope  of  seeing  you  again?  yoc  are  so  kind 
so  gentle,  madam,  that  every  care  is  lulled  into  forgetfau-ess  whilst 
conversing  with  you.”  “ I shall  certainly  see  you  again  as  Jt-Qpn  aa 
possible,”  replied  Amanda. 

Miss  Eushbrook  then  quitted  the  carriage,  which  Amanda  ordered 
Dack  to  town,  and  bid  the  coachman  drive  as  fast  as  possible.  They 
had  not  proceeded  far,  when  the  traces  suddenly  gave  way ; and  the 
man  was  obliged  to  dismount,  and  procure  assistance  from  a public 
house  on  the  road,  in  repairing  them.  This  occasioned  a delay, 
which  greatly  distressed  Amanda ; she  wished  greatly  to  get  home 
before  the  ladies,  lest,  if  this  was  not  the  case,  her  long  absence  / 
should  make  Lady  Greystock,  who  was  remarkably  inquisitive, 
inquire  the  reason  of  it ; and  to  tell  her  she  had  a strong  objection, 
convinced  as  she  was,  that  her  ladyship’s  knowing  she  relieved 
objects  so  extremely  disagreeable  to  her  would  occasion  a quarrel 
between  them,  which  would  either  render  a long  residence  together 
impossible,  or  highly  disagreeable ; and  to  leave  London  at  tlic  pres- 
ent crisis,  when  everything  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer  was  drawing 
to  a conclusion,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  without  tlio  greatest  pain. 

At  length  the  coachman  remounted  his  box,  and  tlio  velocity  with 
which  ho  drove  flattered  her  with  the  hope  of  reaching  home  as  oooa 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


281 


as  she  wished.  Tranquillized  by  this  hope,  she  again  indulged  hel* 
imagination  with  ideas  of  the  comfort  her  little  bounty  had  probabl} 
given  Bushbrook  and  his  dejected  family;  so  sweet  to  her  soul  was 
the  secret  approbation  which  crowned  her  charity,  so  preferable  to 
any  pleasure  she  could  have  experienced  at  a ball,  that  even  the  dis- 
appointment slie  believed  Lord  Mortimer  would  feel  from  her  declin- 
ing it,  was  overlooked  in  the  satisfaction  she  felt  from  the  action  she 
performed.  She  was  convinced  he  would  inquire  her  reason  for  not 
going,  which  she  determined  at  presant  to  conceal ; it  would  appear 
like  ostentation,  slie  thought,  to  say  that  the  money  requisite  for  her 
appearing  at  the  ball  was  expended  in  charity,  and  perhaps  excite  his 
generosity,  in  a manner  which  delicacy  at  present  forbid  her 
allowing. 

She  asked  the  footman  who  handed  her  from  the  carriage  whether 
the  ladies  were  returned ; and,  on  being  answered  in  the  affirmative, 
inquired  the  hour,  and  learned  it  was  just  dinner  time.  Flurried  by 
this  intelligence,  she  hastened  to  her  chamber,  followed  by  the  maid 
appointed  to  attend  her,  who  said  Lady  Greystock  had  inquired  for 
her  as  soon  as  she  came  home.  Amanda  dressed  herself  with  unusual 
expedition,  and  repaired  to  the  drawing-room,  where,  in  addition  to 
the  family  party,  she  found  Lord  Mortimer,  Freelove,  Miss  Malcolm, 
and  some  other  ladies  and  gentlemen,  assembled. 

“ Bless  me,  child,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  the  moment  she  entered  the 
room,  “where  have  you  been  the  whole  day?” 

“I  declare.  Miss  Fitzalan,”  exclaimed  Lady  Euphrasia,  “I  believe 
you  stole  a march  somewhere  upon  us  this  morning.” 

“Well,”  cried  Miss  Malcolm,  laughing,  “your  ladyship  must  know 
that  people  generally  have  some  important  reason  for  stolen  marches, 
which  they  do  not  choose  to  divulge.” 

Amanda  treated  this  malicious  insinuation  with  the  silent  contempt 
it  merited ; and  on  Lady  Greystock’s  again  asking  her  where  she  had 
been,  said  in  a low,  hesitating  voice,  “ In  the  city.^^ 

“In  the  city?^^  repeated  Lord  Mortimer. 

This  sudden  exclamation  startled  her:  she  looked  at  him,  and  per- 
ceived him  regarding  her  with  the  most  scrutinizing  eagerness.  She 
blushed  deeply,  as  if  detected  in  a falsehood,  and  immediately  bent 
her  eyes  to  the  ground. 

The  conversation  now  changed,  but  it  was  some  time  ere  Amanda^s 
confusion  subsided. 


282 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Lord  Mortimer,  indeed,  had  a reason  for  his  exclamation  she  little 
thought  of.  He  had  met  the  marchioness  and  her  companions,  by 
appointment,  at  the  auction,  but  soon  grew  weary  of  his  situation, 
wliich  the  presence  of  Amanda  could  alone  have  rendered  tolerable, 
lie  pleaded  business  as  an  excuse  for  withdrawing,  and  hurrying 
home,  ordered  his  phgeton,  and  proceeded  towards  Kensington.  As 
he  passed  the  carriage  in  which  Amanda  sat,  at  the  time  the  traces 
were  mending,  he  carelessly  looked  into  it,  and  directly  recognized 
her.  Lady  Euphrasia  had  informed  him  she  excused  herself  from 
their  party  on  account  of  some  business  in  the  city.  He  never  heard 
of  her  having  any  acquaintances  in  or  about  Kensington,  and  was  at 
once  alarmed  and  surprised  by  discovering  her.  He  drove  to  some 
distance  from  the  carriage,  and  as  soon  as  it  began  to  move  pursued 
it  with  equal  velocity  till  it  reached  town,  and  then  giving  his  phae- 
ton in  charge  of  the  servant,  followed  it  on  foot  till  he  saw  Amanda 
alight  from  it  at  the  Marquis  of  Kosline^s.  Amanda  had  escaped 
seeing  his  lordship,  by  a profound  meditation  in  which  she  was 
engaged  at  the  moment,  as  she  pensively  leaned  against  the  side  of 
the  carriage.  Lord  Mortimer  walked  back  with  increased  disorder  to 
meet  his  pha0ton.  As  he  approached  it  he  saw  Colonel  Belgrave  by 
it,  on  horseback,  admiring  the  horses,  which  were  remarkably  fine, 
and  asking  to  whom  they  belonged.  His  acquaintance  with  the 
colonel  had  hitherto  never  exceeded  more  than  a passing  bow ; now 
prompted  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  he  saluted  him  familiarly : in- 
quired whether  he  had  had  a pleasant  ride  that  morning,  and  how 
far  he  had  been.'^ 

“ No  farther  than  Kensington, replied  the  colonel. 

This  answer  was  confirmation  strong  to  all  the  fears  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer ; he  turned  pale,  dropped  the  reins  he  had,  with  an  intention 
of  remounting,  and  without  even  noticing  the  colonel,  flew  from  the 
place  and  arrived  at  home  in  almost  a state  of  distraction.  He  was 
engaged  to  dine  at  the  marquis's,  but  in  the  first  violence  of  his  feel- 
ings, resolved  on  sending  an  apology.  Ere  the  servant,  however, 
summoned  for  that  purpose,  had  entered  his  apartment,  he  changed 
his  resolution.  “ I will  go,"  said  he,  “ though  appearances  are  against 
her,  she  may  perhaps  (and  he  tried  to  derive  some  comfort  from  the 
idea)  be  able  satisfactorily  to  account  for  being  at  Kensington." 

Tortured  by  conflicting  passions,  alternately  hoping  and  doubting, 
he  arrived  in  Portman  Square, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


283 


Lady  Grey  stock  and  Lady  Euphrasia  dwelt  with  wonder  on  the 
length  of  Amanda’s  morning  excursion.  When  she  entered  the  room, 
he  thought  she  appeared  embarrassed ; and  that  on  Lady  Greystock’s 
addressing  her,  this  embarrassment  increased ; hut  when  she  said  she 
Lad  been  in  the  city,  her  duplicity,  as  he  termed  it,  appeared  so 
monstrous  to  him,  that  he  could  not  forbear  an  involuntary  repetition 
of  her  words ; so  great  indeed  was  the  indignation  it  excited  in  his 
breast,  that  he  could  scarcely  forbear  reproaching  her  as  the  destroyer 
of  his  and  her  own  felicity.  Her  blush  appeared  to  him,  not  the 
ingenuous  colouring  of  innocence,  but  the  glow  of  shame  and  guilt. 
It  was  evident  to  him  that  she  had  seen  Belgrave  that  morning ; that 
he  was  the  occasion  of  all  the  mystery  which  appeared  in  her 
conduct,  and  that  it  was  the  knowledge  of  the  improper  influence  he 
had  over  her  heart,  which  made  Sir  Charles  Bingley  so  suddenly 
resign  her, 

‘‘Gracious  heaven!”  said  he  to  himself,  “who  that  looked  upon 
Amanda,  could  ever  suppose  duplicity  harboured  in  her  breast ; yet 
that  too  surely  it  is,  I have  every  reason  to  suppose ; yet  a little 
longer  I will  bear  this  tormenting  suspense,  nor  reveal  my  doubts,  till 
thoroughly  convinced  they  are  well  founded. 

He  sat  opposite  to  her  at  dinner,  and  his  eyes  were  directed 
towards  her  with  that  tender  sadness  which  we  feel  on  viewing  a 
beloved  object  we  know  ourselves  on  the  point  of  losing  for 
ever. 

His  melancholy  was  quickly  perceived  by  the  penetrating  march- 
ioness and  Lady  Euphrasia ; they  saw  with  delight  that  the  poison  of 
suspicion  infused  into  his  mind,  was  already  begifining  to  operate ; 
they  anticipated  the  success  of  all  their  schemes ; their  spirits  grew 
uncommonly  elevated,  and  Lady  Euphrasia  determined,  whenever 
she  had  the  power,  to  revenge  on  the  susceptible  nature  of  Mortimer., 
ail  the  uneasiness  he  had  made  her  suflfer : and  to  add,  as  far  as  malice 
could  add  to  it,  to  the  misery  about  to  be  the  lot  of  Amanda. 

The  dejection  of  Lord  Mortimer  was  also  observed  by  Amanda;  it 
excited  her  fears  and  affected  her  sensibility;  she  dreaded  that  his 
aunt  had  refused  complying  with  his  request  relative  to  her  interfe- 
rence with  his  father,  or  that  the  earl  had  been  urging  him  to  an 
immediate  union  with  Lady  Euphrasia:  perhaps  he  now  wavered 
between  love  and  duty ; the  thought  struck  a cold  damp  upon  he^' 


284 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


heart — ^yet  no,  cried  she,  it  cannot  be ; if  inclined  to  change,  Lord 
Mortimer  would  at  once  have  informed  me. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a large  addition  to  the  party,  but  Lord 
Mortimer  sat  pensively  apart  from  the  company.  Amanda  by  chance 
procured  a seat  next  his.  His  paleness  alarmed  her,  and  she  could 
not  forbear  hinting  her  fears  that  he  was  ill. 

“ I am  ill  indeed,”  said  he  heavily : — ^he  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke, 
and  beheld  her  regarding  him  with  the  most  exquisite  tenderness ; 
but  the  period  was  past  for  receiving  delight  from  such  an  appearance 
of  affection ; an  affection  he  had  reason  to  believe  was  never  more 
than  feigned  for  him ; and  also  from  his  emotions  when  with  her, 
that  he  should  never  cease  regretting  the  deception;  his  passions 
exhausted  by  their  own  violence,  had  sunk  into  a calm,  and  sadness 
was  the  predominant  feeling  of  his  soul.  Though  he  so  bitterly 
lamented,  he  could  not  at  the  moment  have  reproached  her  perfidy : 
he  gazed  on  her  with  mournful  tenderness,  and  to  the  involuntary 
expression  of  regret  which  dropped  from  her,  on  hearing  he  was  iU, 
only  replied,  by  saying,  “ Ah ! Amanda,  the  man  that  reaUy  excites 
your  tenderness  must  be  happy.” 

Amanda,  unconscious  that  any  sinister  meaning  lurked  beneath 
these  words,  considered  them  as  an  acknowledgment  of  the  happiness 
he  himself  experienced  from  being  convinced  of  her  regard ; and  her 
heatt  swelled  with  pleasure  at  the  idea. 

Any  farther  conversation  between  them  was  interrupted  by  Miss 
Malcolm,  who,  in  a laughing  manner,  seated  herself  by  Lord  Mortimer, 
to  rally  him,  she  said,  into  good  spirits. 


CHAPTEK  XXIX. 

But  yet,  I say, 

If  imputation  and  strong  circumstances 
Which  lead  directly  to  the  door  of  truth. 

Will  give  you  satisfaction,  you  may  have  it. 

Shakespeare. 

FitOM  that  evening,  to  the  day  destined  for  the  ball,  nothing 
material  happened.  On  the  morning  of  that  day,  as  Amanda 
sitting  in  the  drawing-room  with  the  ladies,  Lord  Mortimer  entered* 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


285 


Lady  Euphrasia  could  talk  of  nothing  else  hut  the  approaching  enter- 
tainment, which  she  said  was  expected  to  be  the  most  brilliant  thing 
that  had  been  given  that  winter. 

“ I hope  your  ladyship,”  said  Amanda,  who  had  not  yet  declared 
her  intention  of  staying  at  home,  “ will  be  able  to  give  a good 
description  of  it.” 

“Why,  I suppose,”  cried  Lady  Euphrasia,  “you  do  not  intend 
going  without  being  able  to  see  and  hear  yourself.” 

“ Certainly,^”  replied  Amanda,  “ I should  not,  but  I do  not  intend 
going.” 

“Not  go  to  the  ball  to-night!”  exclaimed  Lady  Euphrasia. 

“Bless  me,  child,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “what  whim  has  entered 
your  head  to  prevent  your  going?” 

“ Dear  Lady  Greystock,”  said  Lady  Euphrasia,  in  a tone  of  unusual 
good  humour,’  internally  delighted  at  Amanda’s  resolution,  “ don’t 
tcaze  Miss  Eitzalan  with  questions.” 

“And  you  really  do  not  go?”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer  in  an 
accent  expressive  of  surprise  and  disappointment.” 

“ I really  do  not,  my  lord.” 

“ I declare,”  said  the  marchioness,  even*  more  delighted  than  her 
daughter  at  Amanda’s  resolution,  as  it  favoured  a scheme  she  had 
long  been  projecting,  “I  wish  Euphrasia  was  as  indifferent  about 
amusement  as  Miss  Eitzalan : here  she  has  been  complaining  of  indis- 
position the  whole  morning,  yet  I cannot  prevail  on  her  to  give  up 
the  ball.” 

Lady  Euphrasia,  who  never  felt  in  better  health  and  spirits,  would 
have  contradicted  the  marchioness,  had  not  an  expressive  glance 
assured  her  there  was  an  import^fUt  motive  for  this  assertion. 

“ May  we  not  hope,  Mss  Eitzalan,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “ that  a 
resolution  so  suddenly  adopted  as  yours,  may  be  as  suddenly 
changed  ?” 

“ No,  indeed,  my  kid,  nor  is  it  so  suddenly  formed  as  you  seem  to 
suppose.” 

Lord  Mortimer  shuddered,  as  he  endeavored  to  account  for  it  in 
his  own  mind  ; his  agony  became  almost  insupportable : he  arose  and 
walked  to  the  window  where  she  sat 

“ Amanda,”  said  he  in  a low  voice,  “ I fear  you  forgot  your  engage- 
ment to  me,” 


286 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Amanda,  supposing  this  alluded  to  her  engagement  for  the  ball, 
replied,  “she  had  not  forgotten  it.” 

“For  your  inability,  or  disinclination  to  fulfil  it  then,”  said  he, 
“ will  you  not  account  ?” 

“ Most  willingly,  my  lord.” 

“When?”  asked  Lord  Mortimer,  impatiently,  for  unable  longei*  to 
support  his  torturing  suspense,  he  determined,  contrary  to  his  first 
intention,  to  come  to  an  immediate  explanatif  n relative  to  Belgrave. 

“To-morrow,  my  lord,”  replied  Amanda,  “since  you  desire  it,  I 
will  account  for  not  keeping  my  engagement,  and  I trust,”  a modest 
blush  mantling  her  cheeks  as  she  spoke,  “ that  your  lordship  will  not 
disapprove  of  my  reasons  for  declining  it.” 

The  peculiar  earnestness  of  his  words,  J^ord  Mortimer  imagined, 
had  conveyed  their  real  meaning  to  Amanda. 

“ Till  to-morrow,  then,”  sighed  he  heavily,  “ I must  bear  my  dis- 
quietude.” 

His  regret,  Amanda  supposed,  proceeded  from  disappointment  at 
not  having  her  company  at  the  ball;  she  was  flattered  by  it,  and 
pleased  at  the  idea  of  telling  him  her  real  motive  for  not  going ; cer- 
tain it  would  meet  his  approbation,  and  open  another  source  of 
benevolence  to  poor  Eushbrook. 

In  the  evening,  at  Lady  Euphrasia’s  particular  request,  she 
attended  at  her  toilet,  and  assisted  in  ornamenting  her  ladyship.  At 
ten  she  saw  the  party  depart,  without  the  smallest  regi’et  for  not 
accompanying  them : happy  is  self  approbation,  a delightful  calm  v/as 
diffused  over  her  mind ; a treacherous  c^'in,  indeed,  which  lulling; 
her  senses  into  security,  made  the  approaching  storm  burst  with 
redoubled  violence  on  her  head;  it. was  such  a calm  as  Shakespeare 
beautifully  describes : 

We  often  see  against  some  storm 
A silence  in  the  heavens;  the  wreck  stands  still, 

The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below 
As  hush  as  death. 


She  continued  in  Lady  Euphrasia^s  dressing-room,  and  took  up  the 
beautiful  and  affecting  story  of  Paul  and  Mary,  to  amuse  herself.  Her 
whole  attention  was  soon  engrossed  by  it,  and  with  the  unfortunate 
Paul  she  was  shedding  a deluge  of  tears  over  the  fate  of  his  lovely 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


287 


Mary  when  a sudden  noise  made  her  hastily  turn  her  head,  and  with 
equal  horror  and  surprise,  she  beheld  Colonel  Belgrave  coming 
forward.  She  started  up,  and  was  springing  to  the  door,  when  rush- 
ing between  her  and  it  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  forcing  her 
back  to  the  sofa,  rudely  stopped  her  mouth. 

“ ]!^either  cries  nor  struggles,  Amanda,”  said  he,  will  be  availing  ; 
without  the  assistance  of  a friend,  you  may  be  convinced,  I could  not 
liave  entered  this  house  ; and  the  same  friend  will,  you  may  depend 
on  it,  take  care  that  our  t^te-a-t^te,  is  not  interrupted.” 

Amanda  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  treachery,  and  being  convinced, 
from  what  he  said,  she  could  not  expect  assistance,  endeavoured  to 
recover  her  fainting  spirits,  and  exert  all  her  resolution. 

“Your  scheme,  Colonel  Belgrave,”  said  she,  “is  equally  vile  and 
futile ; though  treachery  may  have  brought  you  hither,  you  must  be 
convinced,  that  under  the  Marquis  of  Rosline’s  roof,  who  by  relation- 
ship as  well  as  hospitality,  is  bound  to  protect  me,  you  dare  not, 
with  impunity,  offer  me  any  insult.  The  marquis  will  be  at  home 
immediately;  if  therefore  you  wish  to  preserve  the  semblance  of 
honour,  retire  without  further  delay.” 

“ ITot  to  retire  so  easily,”  exclaimed  Belgrave,  “ did  I take  such 
pains,  or  watch  so  anxiously  for  this  interview.  Fear  not  any  insult ; 
b\it  tin  I have  revealed  the  purpose  of  my  soul,  I will  not  be  forced 
from  you;  my  iove,  or  rather  adoration,  has  known  no  abatement 
by  your  long  concealment;  and  now  that  chance  has  so  happily 
thrown  you  in  my  way,  I will  not  neglect  using  an  opportunity  it 
may  offer.” 

“Gracious  heavens!”  said  Amanda,  while  her  eyes  flashed  with 
indignation,  “how  can  you  have  the  effrontery  to  avow  your  insolent 
intentions ; intentions  which,  long  since,  you  must  have  known  would 
ever  prove  abortive?” 

“ And  why,  my  Amanda,”  said  he,  again  attempting  to  strain  her 
to  his  breast,  while  she  shrunk  from  his  grasp,  “ why  should  they 
prove  aDortlve?  why  should  you  be  obstinate  in  refusing  wealth, 
happiness,  the  sincere,  the  ardent  affections  of  a man,  who  in  pro- 
moting your  felicity,  would  constitute  his  own  ? My  life,  my  fortune, 
would  be  at  your  command.;  my  eternal  gratitude  would  be  yours  for 
any  trifling  sacrifice  the  world  might  think  you  made  me ; hesitate 
no  longer  about  raising  yourself  to  affluence,  which,  to  a benevolent 


288 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


spirit  like  yonrs,  must  be  so  peculiarly  pleasing:  Hesitate  not  to 
secure  independence  to  your  iatber,  promotion  to  your  brother ; and 
be  assured  if  the  connection  I formed  is  an  ill-fated  hour,  deceived 
by  a specious  apearance  of  perfection,  should  ever  be  dissolved,  my 
hand,  like  my  heart,  shall  be  yours.” 

“ Monster !”  exclaimed  Amanda,  beholding  him  with  horror,  “ your 
hand,  was  it  at  your  disposal,  like  your  other  offers,  I should  spurn 
with  contempt ; cease  to  torment  me,”  she  continued,  lest,  in  my 
own  defence,  I call  upon  those  who  have  power,  as  well  as  inclina- 
tion, to  chastise  your  insolence.  Let  this  consideration,  joined  to  the 
certainty  that  your  pursuit  must  ever  prove  unavailing,  influence 
your  future  actions : for  be  assured  that  you  are  in  every  respect,  an 
object  of  abhorrence  to  my  soul.” 

As  she  spoke,  exerting  all  her  strength,  she  burst  from  him  and 
attempted  to  gain  the  door.  He  flung  himself  between  her  and  it, 
his  face  inflamed  with  passion,  and  darting  the  most  malignant 
glances  at  her. 

Terrified  by  his  looks  Amanda  tried  to  avoid  him,  and  when  he 
caught  her  again  in  his  arms,  she  screamed  aloud: — no  one 
appeared : — her  terror  increased. 

“Oh  Belgrave!”  cried  she,  trembling,  “if  you  have  one  principle 
of  honour,  one  feeling  of  humanity  remaining,  retire : I will  pardon 
and  conceal  what  is  past,  if  you  comply  with  my  request.” 

“I  distress  you,  Amanda,”  said  he,  assuming  a softened  accent, 
“and  it  wounds  me  to  the  soul  to  do  so,  though  you,  cruel  and  inex- 
orable, care  not  what  pain  you  occasion  me ; hear  me  calmly,  and  be 
assured,  I shall  attempt  no  action  which  can  offend  you.” 

He  led  her  again  to  the  sofa,  and  thus  continued. 

“ Misled  by  false  views,  you  shun  and  detest  the  only  man  who  has 
had  sufficient  sincerity  to  declare  openly  his  intentions  ; inexperience 
and  credulity  have  already  made  you  a dupe  to  artifice.  You  imagined 
Sir  Charles  Bingley  was  a fervent  admirer  of  yours,  when  be  assured, 
in  following  you,  he  only  obeyed  the  dictates  of  an  egregious  vanity, 
which  flattered  him  with  the  hope  of  gaining  your  regard,  and  being 
distinguished  by  it ; nothing  was  farther  from  his  thoughts,  as  he 
himself  confessed  to  me,  than  seriously  paying  his  addresses  to  you, 
and  had  you  appeared  willing,  at  last,  to  accept  them,  be  assured  h© 
would  soon  have  contrived  some  scheme  to  disengage  himself  from 


OniLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


289 


you.  The  attentions  of  Lord  Mortimer  are  prompted  by^  a motive 
much  more  dangerous  than  that  which  instigated  Sir  Charles ; ho 
really  admires  you,  and  would  have  you  believe  his  views  are 
honourable ; but,  beware  of  his  duplicity,  he  seeks  to  take  advantage 
of  the  too  great  confidence  you  repose  in  him : his  purpose  once 
accomplished,  he  would  sacrifice  you  to  Lady  Euphrasia : and  I know 
enough  of  her  malevolent  disposition  to  be  convinced  she  would  enjoy 
her  triumph  over  so  lovely  a victim.  Ah ! my  dear  Amanda,  even 
beauty  and  elegance,  like  yours,  would  not,  on  the  generality  of  man- 
kind, have  power  to  make  them  forego  the  advantages  annexed  to 
wealth;  on  Lord  Mi timer,  particularly,  they  would  fail  of  that 
effect : his  ambition  and  avarice  are  equal  to  his  father’s ; and  though 
his  heart  and  soul,  I am  confident,  revolt  from  the  person  and  mind 
of  Lady  Euphrasia,  he  will  unite  himself  to  her,  for  the  sake  of  pos- 
sessing her  fortune,  and  thus  increasing  his  own  power  of  procu- 
ring the  gratifications  he  delights  in. — As  my  situation  is  known,  I 
cannot  be  accused  of  deception,  and  whatever  I promise  will  be 
strictly  fulfilled : deliberate  therefore  no  longer,  my  Amanda,  on  the 
course  you  shall  pursue.” 

ISTo,”  cried  she,  ‘ I shall  indeed  no  longer  deliberate  about  it.” 

As  she  spoke,  she  started  from  her  seat. — ^Belgrave  again  siezed  her 
hand.  At  this  moment  a knocking  was  heard  at  the  hall  door, 
which  echoed  through  the  house.  Amanda  trembled,  and  Belgrave 
paused  in  a speech  he  had  begun.  She  supposed  the  marquis  had 
returned:  it  was  improbable  he  would  come  into  that  room:  and 
even  if  he  did,  from  his  distrustful  and  malignant  temper  she  knew 
not  whether  she  would  have  reason  to  rejoice  or  regret  his  presence. 
But  how  great  was  her  confusion,  when  instead  of  his  voice, 
she  heard  those  of  the  marchioness  and  her  party.  In  a moment 
the  dreadful  consequences  which  might  ensue  from  her  present 
situation,  rushed  upon  her  mind. — By  the  forced  attentions  of 
the  marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  was  not  long  deceived,  and 
had  reason  to  believe,  from  the  inveterate  dislike  they  bore  her,  that 
they  would  rejoice  at  an  opportunity  like  the  present  for  tradu- 
cing her  fame ; and  with  horror  she  saw  that  appearances  even  in  the 
oyes  of  candour,  would  be  against  her.  She  had  positively  and  unex- 
pectedly refused  going  to  the  ball:  she  had  exprest  delight  at  the 
idea  of  staying  at  home.  Alas ! would  not  all  these  circumstances  be 

13 


25^0 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


dwelt  upon ! What  ideas  might  they  now  excite  in  Lord  Mortimer, 
who  already  showed  a tendency  to  jealousy  ? 

Half  wild  at  the  idea,  she  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  exclaim- 
ed in  a voice  trembling  with  anguish,  “ Merciful  heaven  I am  ruined 
forever.” 

“Mo,  no,”  cried  Belgrave,  flinging  himself  at  her  feet,  “pardon 
me,  Amanda,  and  I never  more  will  molest  you ; I see  your  principles 
are  invincible : I admire,  I revere  your  purity,  and  never  more  will  I 
attempt  to  injure  it;  I was  on  the  point  of  declaring  so,  when  the 
cursed  knock  came  to  the  door ; compose  yourself,  and  consider  what 
can  be  done  in  the  present  emergency ; you  will  be  ruined  if  I am 
seen  with  you ; the  malicious  devils  you  live  wdth,  would  never 
believe  our  united  asseverations  of  your  innocence : conceal  me  there- 
fore, if  possible,  till  the  family  are  settled : the  person  who  let  me  in, 
wiU  then  secure  my  retreat,  and  I swear  solemnly  never  more  to 
double  you.” 

Amanda  hesitated  between  the  confidence  her  innocence  inspired, 
and  the  dread  of  the  unpleasant  construction  malice  might  put  on  her 
situation.  She  heard  the  party  ascending  the  stairs ; fear  conquered 
her  reluctance  to  concealment,  and  she  motioned  to  Belgrave  to  retire 
to  a closet  adjoining  the  dressing  room.  He  obeyed  the  motion  and 
closed  the  door  softly  after  him. 

Amanda,  snatching  up  her  book,  endeavoured  to  compose  herself ; 
but  the  efibrt  was  ineflTectual : she  trembled  universally ; nor  was  her 
agitation  diminished,  when  from  the  outside  of  the  door.  Lady 
Euphrasia  called  her  to  open  it.  She  tottered  to  it,  and  almost  faint- 
ed on  finding  it  locked : with  difficulty  she  opened  it,  and  the  whole 
party,  followed  by  the  marquis,  entered. 

“Upon  my  word.  Miss  Eitzalan,”  said  the  marchioness,  “you  were 
determined  no  one  should  disturb  your  meditations  ; I fear  we  have 
surprised  you ; but  poor  Euphrasia  was  taken  ill  at  the  ball,  and  we 
were  obliged  to  return  with  her.” 

“Miss  Eitzalan  has  not  been  much  better,  I believe,”  said  Lady 
E^:phrasia,  regarding  her  attentively. 

“Good  Lord  I child,”  cried  Lady  Greystock,  “what  is  tlie  matter 
with  you  ? why  you  look  as  pale  as  if  you  had  seen  a ghost.” 

“Miss  Eitzalan  is  fond  of  solitude,”  exclaimed  the  marquis,  pre- 
venting her  reply  to  Lady  Greystock. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  291 

Wlien  I returned  home  about  an  hour  ago,  I sent  to  request  her 
company  in  the  parlour,  which  honour,  I assure  you,  I was  refused.” 

The  message  indeed  had  been  sent,  but  never  delivered  to  Amanda. 

“I  assure  you,  my  lord,”  said  she,  ‘‘I  have  heard  of  no  such 
request.” 

‘‘And  pray  child,  how  have  you  been  employed  all  this  time?” 
asked  Lady  Greystock. 

“ In  reading,  madam,”  faultered  out  Amanda,  while  her  death-like 
paleness  was  succeeded  by  a deep  blush. 

“ You  are  certainly  ill,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  who  sat  beside  her 
in  a voice  expressive  of  regret  at  the  conviction : “ you  have  been 
indulging  melancholy  ideas,  I fear,”  continued  he  softly,  and  taking 
her  hand,  “for  surely — surely  to-night  you  are  uncommonly  affected.” 

Amanda  attempted  to  speak : the  contending  emotions  of  her  mind 
prevented  her  utterance,  and  the  tears  trickled  silently  down  her 
cheeks.  Lord  Mortimer  saw  she  wished  to  avoid  notice,  yet  scarcely 
could  he  forbear  requesting  some  assistance  for  her. 

Lady  Euphrasia  now  complained  of  a violent  head-ache : the  mar- 
chioness wanted  to  ring  for  her  remedies:  this  Lady  Euphrasia 
opposed ; at  last,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  it,  she  said,  “ in  the  closet 
there  was  a bottle  of  eau-de-luce,  which  she  was  certain  would  be  of 
service  to  her.” 

At  the  mention  of  the  closet,  the  blood  ran  cold  through  the  veins 
of  Amanda ; but  when  she  saw  Lady  Euphrasia  rise  to  enter  it,  had 
death  in  its  most  frightful  form  stared  her  in  the  face,  she  could 
not  have  betrayed  more  horror.  She  looked  towards  it  with  a 
countenance  as  expressive  of  wild  affright,  as  Macbeth’s  when  view- 
ing the  chair,  on  which  the  spectre  of  the  murdered  Banquo  sat. 
Lord  Mortimer  observing  the  disorder  of  her  looks,  began  to  tremble ; 
he  grasped  her  hand  with  a convulsive  motion,  and  exclaimed- 
“ Amanda,  what  means  this  agitation  ?” 

A loud  scream  from  Lady  Euphrasia  broke  upon  their  ears,  and 
she  rushed  from  the  closet,  followed  by  Belgrave. 

“Gracious  heavens!”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  dropping  Aman- 
da’s hand,  and  rising  precipitately. 

Amanda  looked  around — she  beheld  every  eye  fastened  on  her 
with  amazement  and  contempt ; the  shock  was  too  much  for  her  to 
support*  a confused  idea  darted  into  her  mind,  that  a deep-laid  plot 


202 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


had  been  concerted  to  ruin  her;  she  faintly  exclaimed,  ‘‘I  am 
betrayed,”  and  sunk  back  upon  the  sofa. 

Lord  Mortimer  started  at  her  exclamation.  '^Oh  heavens!”  cncd 
he,  as  he  looked  towards  her;  unable  to  support  the  scene  that 
would  ensue  in  consequence  of  this  discovery,  he  struck  his  foreliead 
in  an  agony,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  hall  he  was  stopped  by  Mrs.  Jane,  the  maid  appointed  by 
the  marchioness  to  attend  Amanda. 

“ Alack-a-day,  my  lord,”  said  she,  in  a whimpering  voice,  “some- 
thing dreadful,  I am  afraid,  has  happened  above  staii&,  oh  dear, 
what  people  suffer  sometimes  by  their  good  nature;  I am  sure,  if  I 
thought  any  harm  would  come  of  granting  Miss  Fitzalan’s  request, 
she  would  have  begged  and  prayed  long  enough  before  I would  have 
obliged  her.” 

“Did  she  desire  you  to  bring  Colonel  Belgrave  to  this  house?” 
asked  Lord  Mortimer. 

“Oh,  to  be  sure  she  did,  my  lord,  or  how  should  I ever  have 
thought  of  such  a thing;  she  has  been  begging  and  praying  long 
enough  for  me  to  contrive  some  way  of  bringing  him  here ; and  she 
told  me  a piteous  story,  which  wou^d  have  softened  a stone,  of  his 
being  a sweetheart  of  hers  before  he  was  married.” 

“Merciful  powers!”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  clasping  his  hands  toge- 
ther, “how  have  I been  deceived!” 

He  was  hurrying  away,  when  Mrs.  Jane  caught  his  coat. 

“I  shall  lose  my  place,”  said  she,  sobbing,  “that  I shall,  most 
certainly,  for  my  lord  and  lady  never  will  forgive  my  bringing  any 
one,  in  such  a way,  into  the  house ; I am  sure  I thought  no  great 
harm  in  it,  and  did  it  quite  from  good  nature  ; for  indeed,  how  could 
one  resist  the  poor  dear  young  lady;  she  cried,  and  said,  she  only 
wanted  to  bid  farewell  to  her  dear  Belgrave.” 

Lord  Mortimer  could  hear  no  more ; he  shook  her  from  him,  and 
hurried  from  the  house. 

Amanda’s  faculties  suffered  but  a momentary  suspension ; as  she 
opened  her  eyes,  her  composure  and  fortitude  returned. 

“I  am  convinced,”  said  she,  rising,  and  advancing  to  the  marquis, 
“it  will  shock  your  lordship  to  hear  that  it  is  the  treachery  of  some 
person  under  your  roof,  has  involved  me  in  my  present  embarrassing 
situation.  For  my  own  justification,  ’tis  necessary  to  acknowledge 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBET.  2D? 

that  I have  long  been  the  object  of  a pursuit  from  Colonel  Beigrave, 
as  degrading  to  his  character  as  insulting  to  mine.  T^lien  lie  broke 
so  unexpectedly  upon  me  to-night,  he  declared,  even  with  effrontery 
declared,  he  had  a friend  in  this  house,  who  gave  him  access  to  it. 
As  your  guest,  my  lord,  I may  expect  your  lordship’s  protection; 
also  that  an  immediate  inquiry  be  made  for  the  abettor  in  this 
scheme  against  me,  and  a full  discovery  of  it  extorted,  that  should 
the  affair  be  mentioned,  it  may  be  explained,  and  my  fame  cleared  of 
every  imputation.” 

“ That,  madam,”  said  the  marquis,  with  a malicious  sneer,  would 
not  be  quite  so  easy  a matter  as  you  may  perhaps  suppose : neither 
the  world  nor  I are  so  credulous  as  you  imagine ; your  story,  madam, 
by  no  means  hangs  well  together ; there  is  no  person  in  my  house 
would  have  dared  to  commit  the  act  you  accuse  them  of,  as  they 
must  know  that  the  consequence  of  it  would  be  immediate  dismission 
from  my  service.  Had  not  Colonel  Beigrave  been  voluntarily  admit- 
ted, he  never  would  have  been  concealed : no,  madam,  you  would 
have  rejoiced  at  the  opportunity  our  presence  gave  you,  of  punishing 
his  temerity.  Innocence  is  bold ; ’tis  guilt  alone  is  timorous. 

The  truth  of  part  of  his  speech  struck  forcibly  upon  Amanda  ; but 
how  could  she  explaiq  her  conduct  ? how  declare  it  was  her  dread  of 
the  marchioness  and  Lad^  Euphrasia’s  malice  which  had  made  her 
consent  to  conceal  him. 

“ Oh  I I see,”  said  she  in  the  agony  of  her  soul,  “ I see  I am  the 
dupe  of  complicated  artifice.” 

“ I never  in  my  life,”  cried  the  marcliioness,  “ met  with  such 
assurance  : — ^to  desire  the  marquis  to  be  her  champion.” 

“As  she  was  entrusted  to  my  care,  however,”  exclaimed  Lady 
Greystock,  “I  think  it  necessary  to  inquire  into  the  affair.  Pray, 
Sir,”  turning  to  the  colonel,  “ by  wliat  means  did  you  come  here  ?” 

The  colonel,  with  undiminished  assurance,  had  hitherto  stood  near 
the  fatal  closet,  leaning  on  a chair.” 

“ That,  madam,”  replied  he,  “ I must  be  excused  from  revealing ; 
let  me,  however,  assure  your  ladyship,  ’tis  not  on  my  account  1 
affect  concealment.”  Here  he  glanced  at  Amanda.  “ Those  parts  of 
my  conduct,  however,  which  I choose  to  conceal,  I shall  always  be 
ready  to  defend.” 

“ Sir,”  cried  the  ma-quis  haaghtily,  “ no  explanation  or  defence  of 


294 


CHIL13REN  OF  THE  ABBEr, 


your  conduct,  is  here  required.  I have  neither  right  nor  inclination 
to  interfere  in  Miss  Fitzalan’s  concerns.” 

The  colone.  bowed  to  the  circle  and  was  leciring,  when  Amanda 
flew  to  him  and  caught  his  arm.  “ Surely,  surely,”  said  she,  almost 
gasping  for  breath,  “ you  cannot  be  so  inhuman,  as  to  retire  v/ithout 
explaining  this  whole  affair.  Oh  ! Belgrave,  leave  me  not  a prey  to 
slander ; by  all  your  hopes  of  mercy  and  forgiveness  hereafter,  I con- 
jure'you  to  clear  my  fame.” 

“My  dear  creature,”  said  he  in  a low  voice,  yet  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  by  the  whole  party,  “ any  thing  I could  say  would  be  unavail- 
ing ; you  And  they  are  determined  not  to  see  things  in  the  light  we 
wish  them  viewed ; compose  yourself,  I beseech  you,  and  be  assured^ 
while  I exist,  you  never  shall  want  comfort  or  affluence.” 

He  gently  disengaged  himself  as  he  spoke,  and  quitted  the  room, 
leaving  her  riveted  to  the  floor  in  amazement,  at  his  insolence  and 
perfidy. 

“ I am  sure,”  said  Lady  Greystock,  “ I shall  regret  all  my  life  the 
hour  in  which  I took  her  under  my  protection : though,  indeed,  from 
what  I heard  soon  after  my  arrival  in  London,  I should  have  dis- 
patched her  back  to  her  father ; but  I felt  a foolish  pity  for  her ; I 
was  in  hopes,  indeed,  the  society  I had  intr^uced  her  to,  would 
have  produced  a reformation,  and  that  1 might  be  the  means  of 
saving  a young  creature  from  entire  destruction.” 

“ From  what  I have  already  suffered  by  her  family  nothing  sho'aid 
have  tempted  me  to  take  her  under  my  roof,”  exclaimed  the  mar- 
chioness. 

“Was  she  my  relation,”  cried  the  marquis,  “I  should  long  since 
have  come  to  a determination  about  her ; as  yours,  madam,”  turning 
to  the  marchioness,  “ I shall  not  attempt  forming  one : I deem  it,  how- 
ever, absolutely  necessary  to  remove  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland 
from  the  house  till  the  young  lady  chooses  to  quit  it : I shall  there- 
fore order  the  carriage  to  be  ready  at  an  early  hour  for  the  villa.” 

“ I shall  certainly  accompany  your  lordship,”  cried  the  marchioness, 
“ for  I cannot  endure  her  sight ; and  though  she  deserves  it,  it  shall 
not  be  said  that  we  turned  her  from  the  house.” 

“ The  only  measure  she  should  pursue,”  exclaimed  I.ady  Greystor;k, 
“ is  to  set  off  as  soon  as  possible  for  Ireland  : when  she  returns  to 
obscurity,  the  affair  may  die  away. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


296 


‘ It  may,  however,”  said  Amanda,  “ be  yet  revived,  to  cover  with 
confusion  its  contrivers:  to  heaven  I leave  the  vindication  of  my 
innocence;  its  justice  is  sure,  though  sometimes  slow,  and  the  hour 
of  retribution  often  arrives  when  least  expected:  niuch  as  I have 
suffered — ^much  as  I may  still  suffer,  I think  my  own  situation  pre- 
ferable to  theirs,  who  have  set  their  snares  around  me : the  injuriv 
must  receive  greater  pangs  than  the  injured — the  pangs  of  guilt  and 
remorse.  I shall  return  to  my  obscurity,  happy  in  the  consciousness, 
that  it  is  not  a shelter  from  shame,  but  a refuge  from  cruelty  I seek : 
but  can  I be  surprised  at  meeting  cruelty  from  those,  who  have  long 
since  waved  the  ties  of  kindred ; — from  those,”  and  she  glanced  at 
Lady  Greystock,  “who  have  set  aside  the  claims  of  justice  and 
humanity.” 

The  mardiioness  trembled  with  rage  at  this  speech,  and  as  Amanda 
retired  from  the  room,  exclaimed,  “ intolerable  assurance.” 

Amanda  repaired  immediately  to  her  chamber : she  tottered  as  she 
walked,  and  the  housekeeper  and  Mrs.  Jane,  who,  with  some  oth€^ 
servants,  had  assembled,  out  of  curiosity,  near  the  door,  followed  her 
thither. 

The  emotions  she  had  so  painfully  supprest,  now  burst  forth  with 
violence ; she  fell  into  an  agony  of  tears  and  sobs,  which  impeded 
her  breathing.  The  housekeeper  and  Jane  loosened  her  clothes,  and 
supported  her  to  the  bed.  In  a short  time  she  was  suflSciently 
recovered  to  be  able  to  speak,  and  requested  they  would  engage  a 
carriage  for  her  against  the  next  day,  at  an  early  hour,  that  she  might 
commence  her  Journey  to  Ireland;  this  they  promised,  and  at  her 
desire  retired. 

Success,  and  not  happiness,  had  crowned  the  marchioness’s  scheme ; 
she.  triumphed  in  the  disgrace  she  had  drawn  upon  Amanda,  but 
feared  that  disgrace  was  only  temporary ; she  had  entangled  her  in  % 
snare,  but  dreaded  not  having  secured  her  in  it ; she  distrusted  those 
who  had  assisted  her  designs,  for  the  guilty  will  ever  suspect  each 
other  ; they  might  betray  her,  or  Colonel  Belgrave  might  repent ; but 
such  evils,  if  they  did  ever  arrive,  were  probably  far  distant ; in  the 
interim,  all  she  desired  to  accomplish,  might  be  effected.  Long  had 
she  been  meditating  on  some  plan,  which  should  ruin  Amanda 
forever,  not  only  in  the  opinion  of  Lord  Mortimer,  but  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  world.  M^ith  the  profligacy  of  Colonel  Belgrave  she  w&a 


296 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


well  acquainted,  and  inclined  from  it  to  believe,  that  be  would 
readily  join  in  any  scheme  which  could  give  him  a chance  of  pos- 
sessing Amanda.  On  discovering  her  residence,  he  had  ordered  his 
valet,  who  was  a trusty  agent  in  all  his  viUanies,  to  endeavor  to  gain 
access  to  the  house,  that  he  might  discover  whether  there  was  a 
chance  of  introducing  him  there.  The  valet  obeyed  his  orders,  and 
soon  attached  himself  to  Mrs.  Jane,  whom  the  marchioness  had 
placed  about  Amanda,  from  knowing  she  was  capable  of  any 
deceitful  part.  She  was  introduced  to  Belgrave,  and  a handsome 
present  secured  her  in  his  interest. 

She  communicated  to  the  marchioness  particulars  of  their  inter- 
view : :u'cm  that  period  they  had  been  seeking  to  bring  about  such  a 
scene  was  at  last  acted ; for  the  conduct  of  Amanda  had  hitherto 
defeated  their  attention.  Her  staying  from  the  ball  at  last  gave  the 
wished  for  opportunity. 

Lady  Euphrasia  was  apprized  of  the  whole  plot,  and  the  hint  of 
her  indisposition  was  given  in  the  morning,  that  no  suspicion  might 
be  entertained  in  the  evening,  when  mentioned  as  a plea  for  returning 
home  earlier  than  was  intended. 

Colonel  Belgrave  was  introduced  into  the  closet  by  Mi’s.  Jane^ 
through  a door  that  opened  from  the  lobby ; and  whilst  Amanda  sat 
pensively  reading,  he  stole  out,  and  secured  the  other  door,  as  already 
mentioned. 

When  Lady  Euphrasia  declared  she  was  too  ill  to  continue  at  the 
baU,  Lord  Mortimer  offered  to  attend  her  home ; had  he  not  done  so, 
the  marchioness  intended  to  have  asked  him. 

The  marquis  was  persuaded  that  Amanda  was  an  artful  and 
dangerous  rival  to  his  daughter,  and  he  hated  her  from  that  conside- 
ration. The  laws  of  hospitality  obliged  him  to  treat  her  with  ]X)lite- 
ness,  but  he  gladly  seized  the  first  opportunity  that  offered  for  express- 
ing his  dislike. 

Lady  Greystock  saw  through  the  plot,  but  she  protest  her  belief 
of  Amanda’s  guilt,  which  was  all  the  marchioness  required. 

The  marquis  left  the  ladies  together,  while  he  went  to  give  orders 
about  his  early  journey. 

Soon  after  his  departure  a loud  knocking  was  heard,  which 
anjiounced  a visitor;  and  from  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  they  con- 
jectured, and  were  right  in  doing  so,  that  it  must  be  Lord  Mortimer. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  1297 

After  traversing  several  streets,  in  an  agony  no  longue  could 
describe,  he  returned  to  Portman  Square.  His  fiincy  presented 
Amanda  to  his  view,  overwhelmed  with  shame,  and  sinking  beneath 
the  keen,  reproaches  levelled  at  her.  In  the  idea  of  her  sufferings,  all 
resentment  for  her  supposed  perfidy  was  forgotten.  Human  nature 
was  liable  to  err,  and  the  noblest  efforts  that  nature  could  make,  was 
to  pardon  such  errors.  To  speak  comfort  to  this  fallen  angel,  he  felt 
vould  relieve  the  weight  which  prest  upon  his  own  breast. — Pale  and 
disordered,  he  entered  the  room,  and  found  the  ladies  apparently 
tuch  affected. 

My  dear  lord,”  said  the  marchioness,  “ I am  glad  you  are  come 
back ; as  a friend  of  the  family,  you  may  perhaps  honour  us  with 
your  advice  on  the  present  occasion.” 

“ Indeed,”  exclaimed  Lady  Greystock,  “ I suppose  his  lordship  is 
at  as  great  loss  to  know  what  can  be  done  as  we  are.  Was  the  colo- 
nel in  a situation  to  make  any  reparation ! but  a married  man,  only 
think  how  horrible!” 

‘‘  Execrable  monster!”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  starting  from  his  seat, 
and  traversing  the  room ; “ it  were  a deed  of  kindness  to  mankind  to 
extirpate  him  from  the  earth : but  say,”  continued  he,  and  his  voice 
faltered  as  he  spoke,  “ where  is  the  unfortunate — ” he  could  not  pro- 
nounce the  name  of  Amanda. 

“ In  her  own  room,”  replied  the  marchioness  : “ I assure  you,  she 
behaved  with  not  a little  insolence,  on  Lady  Greystock’s  advising  her 
to  return  home.  For  my  part,  I shall  let  her  act  as  she  pleases.” 

She  then  proceeded  to  mention  the  marquis’s  resolution  of  leaving 
the  house  till  she  had  quitted  it,  and  that  he  insisted  on  their  accom- 
panying him. 

“To  return  to  her  father,  is  certainly  the  only  eligible  plan  she  can 
pursue,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “but  allow  me,”  continued  he,  “to 
request,  that  your  ladyship  will  not  impute  to  insolence,  any  expres- 
sion which  dropped  from  her ; pity  her  wounded  feelings,  and  soften 
her  sorrows.” 

“I  declare,”  cried  Lady  Euphrasia,  “I  tliorght  I should  have 
fainted  from  the  pity  I felt  for  her.” 

“ You  pitied  lier,  then,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  sitting  down  by  her 
ladyship,  “you  pitied  and  soothed  her  afilictions  ?” 

Yes,  indeed,”  replied  she. 


13^ 


298 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


If  eyei  Lady  Euphrasia  appeared  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer, it  was  at  this  moment,  when  he  was  credulous  enough  to 
believe  she  had  shed  the  tear  of  pity  over  his  lost  Amanda. 

' lie  took  her  hand.  “ Ah ! my  dear  Lady  Euphrasia,”  said  he,  in 
an  accent  of  melting  softness,  “ perhaps  even  now  she  needs  consola- 
tion; a gentle  female  friend  would  be  a comfort  to  her  wounded 
heart.” 

Lady  Euphrasia  immediately  took  the  hint,  and  said  she  would  go 
to  her. 

He  led  her  to  the  door.  “ You  are  going,”  cried  he,  “ to  perform 
the  office  of  an  angel;  to  console  the  afflicted:  ah!  well  does  it 
become  the  young  and  gentle  of  your  sex,  to  pity  such  misfortunes.” 

Her  ladyship  retired,  but  not  indeed  to  the  chamber  of  the  forlorn 
Amanda ; in  her  own  she  vented  the  rage  of  her  soul,  in  something 
little  short  of  execrations  against  Lord  Mortimer,  for  the  affection  she 
saw  he  still  retained  for  Amanda. 

On  her  ladyship’s  retiring,  Lady  Greystock  mentioned  every  parti- 
cular she  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Jennings,  and  bitterly  lamented  her 
ever  having  taken  Amanda  under  her  protection. 

The  subject  was  too  painful  to  be  long  endured  by  Lord  Mortimer. 
He  had  heard  of  the  early  hour  fixed  for  the  journey,  and  saying  ho 
would  no  longer  keep  the  ladies  from  repose,  precipitately  retired. 
He  gave  his  man  directions  to  watch  their  motions,  and  inform  him 
when  they  left  the  town. 

Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  her  emotions,  a temporary  forgetful- 
ness stole  over  the  senses  of  Amanda,  on  her  being  left  to  solitude. 
In  this  state  she  continued,  till  roused  by  a bustle  in  the  house ; she 
started,  listened,  and  heard  the  sound  of  a carriage ; supposing  it  to 
be  the  one  she  had  ordered  for  her  departure,  she  sprang  from  the 
bed,  and  going  to  the  window,  saw,  instead  of  one  for  her,  the  mar- 
quis’s, into  which  he  was  handing  the  ladies.  As  soon  as  it  drove 
from  the  door,  she  rang  the  bell,  and  the  housekeeper  immediately 
appeared,  as  Mrs.  Jane  had  attended  the  maichioness  to  the  villa. 
Amanda  inquired  “whether  a carriage,  as  slie  directed,  had  been 
engaged  for  her.” 

The  housekeeper  replied,  “ the  hour  in  which  she  spoke  was  too 
late  for  such  a purpose,  but  she  had  now  sent  for  one.” 

Amanda  endeavoured  to  exert  herself,  and  was  packing  up  her 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


299 


clothoo,  'v^'lien  a maid  entered  the  chamber,  and  said,  ‘‘Lord  Mortimer 
was  below,  and  wished  to  speak  to  her.”  y 

Tumultucns  joy  pervaded  the  mind  of  Amanda ; slie  bad  ber^yed 
it  probable  she  sboald  not  see  him  again  before  her  departure  for 
Ireland,  from  whence  she  had  determined  writing  to  him  the  particu- 
lars of  the  affair.  His  visit  seemed  to  announce  he  thought  not 
nnfavonrably  of  her : she  supposed  he  came  to  assure  her,  that  his 
opinion  of  her  integrity  was  unshaken,  “and  I shall  yet  triumph,” 
cried  she,  in  the  transport  of  the  idea,  “ over  malice  and  treachery.” 

She  sprung  past  the  maid ; her  feet  scarce  touching  the  ground,  and 
in  a moment  she  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Lord  Mortimer,  which 
involuntarily  opened  to  receive  her,  for  trembling,  weak,  and  disor- 
dered, she  would  else,  on  seeing  him,  have  sunk  to  the  floor. 

‘ He  supported  her  to  a sofa ; in  a little  time  she  raised  her  heM 
from  his  shoulder,  and  exclaimed, 

“Oh!  you  are  come,  I know  ^-ou  arc  come  to  comfort  me.” 

“Would  to  heaven,”  he  answered,  “I  were  capable  of  either  giving 
or  receiving  comfort ; the  period,  however,  I trust,  may  yet  arrive,  when 
we  shall  both,  at  least  be  more  composed : — to  mitigate  your  sorix>wg, 
would  lessen  my  own ; for  never,  oh  never  can  my  heart  forgot  tho 
love  and  esteem  it  once  bore  Amanda.” 

“Once  bore  her  1”  repeated  Amanda,  “once  bore  her.  Lord  Mor- 
timer, do  you  say  then  you  wish  to  imply,  they  no  longer  exist.” 

The  tone  of  anguish  in  which  she  spoke,  pierced  the  heart  of  Lord 
Mortimer ; unable  to  speak,  he  arose,  and  walked  to  the  window  to 
hide  his  emotion. 

His  words,  his  silence,  all  conveyed  a Mai  truth  to  Amanda ; she 
saw  a dreadful  and  eternal  separation  effected  between  her  and  Lord 
Mortimer : — She  beheld  herself  deprived  of  reputation,  loaded  with 
calumny,  and  no  longer  an  object  of  love,  but  of  detestation  and  con- 
tempt. 

Her  anguish  was  almost  too  great  to  bear,  yet  the  pride  of  injured 
innocence  made  her  wish  to  conceal  it ; and  as  Lord  Mortimer  st(X>d 
at  the  window,  she  determined  to  try  and  leave  the  room  without  his 
knowledge,  but  ere  she  gained  the  door,  her  head  grew  giddy,  her 
strength  failed,  she  staggered,  faintly  screamed  on  finding  herself 
falling,  and  sunk  upon  the  floor. 

Lord  Mortimer  wildly  called  for  assistance ; he  raised  and  carried 


300 


CHILDREN  O V THE  AB^EY, 


her  back  tQ  the  sofa;  he  strained  her  to  his  bosom;  kissed  L^r  pale 
lips,  and  v/ept  over  her. 

“ I have  wounded  yonr  gentle  soul,  my  Amanda,”  he  cried,  ‘‘  but  I 
h^ve  tortured  my  own  by  doing  so;  ah!  still  dearest  cf  women,  did 
tlie  world  compassionate  your  errors,  as  I compassionate  them, 
neither  contempt  nor  calumny  would  ever  be  your  portion.  Ho  w 
pale  she  looks,”  said  he,  raising  his  head  to  gaze  upon  her  face. 
‘‘  how  like  a lovely  flower,  untimely  faded ; yet  were  it  happiness  for 
her  never  to  revive:  a soul  like  hers,  originally  noble,  must  be 
wretched  under  the  pressure  of  scorn.  Execrable  Belgrave!  the 
fairest  work  of  heaven  is  destroyed  by  you.  Oh  1 my  Amanda,  my 
distress  is  surely  severe,  though  anguish  rives  my  heart  for  your  loss, 
I must  coreeal  it : the  sad  luxury  of  grief  will  be  denied  me ; for  the 
world  would  smile  if  I should  say,  I now  lamented  you.” 

Such  were  the  effusions  of  sorrow  which  broke  from  Lord  Mortimer, 
over  the  insensible  Amanda.  The  housekeeper,  who  had  been  listening 
all  this  tiu^e,  now  appeared,  as  if  in  obedience  to  his  call,  and  oflered 
her  assistance  in  recovering  Amanda.  Heavy  sighs  at  length  gave 
hopes  of  her  restoration.  Lord  Mortimer,  unable  to  support  her 
pathetic  lamentations,  determined  to  depart  ere  she  was  perfectly 
sensible. 

“Miss  Eitzalan,”  said  he  to  the  housekeeper,  “will  wish,  I ‘am 
convinced,  to  quit  this  house  immediately ; I shall  take  upon  myself 
to  procure  her  a carriage,  also  a proper  attendant  for  her  journey, 
which,  I flatter  myself,  she  will  be  able  to  commence  in  a few  hours ; 
be  kind,  be  gentle  to  her,  my  good  woman,  and  depend  upon  my 
eternal  gratitude.  "When  she  is  recovered  deliver  her  this  letter.” 

The  housekeeper  promised  to  observe  his  injunction  and  he 
departed. 

To  Ireland,  with  Amanda,  he  intended  sending  an  old  female 
servant,  who  had  formerly  been  an  attendant  of  his  mother’s,  and 
his  own  man.  He  was  shocked  at  the  conduct  of  the  marchioness 
and  Lady  Greystock,  and  thought  them  guilty,  of  the  highest  inhu- 
manity, in  thus  deserting  Amanda.  The  letter  he  had  put  into  the 
housekeeper’s  hands,  excited  lier  curiosity  so  strongly  that  she  was 
tempted  to  gratify  it.  Amanda  wms  not  in  a situation  to  perceive 
what  she  did : the  letter  could  easily  be  sealed  again  ; and,  in  short, 
without  longer  hesitation,  she  opened  it.  How  great  was  lier  amaze 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


801 


ment,  on  finding  it  contained  a bank  note  for  five  Imndred  pounds : 
the  words  were  as  follows : 

“ Consider  me,  Amanda,  in  the  light  of  a brother  : as  such  accept  my  services : to  servn 
you,  in  any  manner,  will  be  a source  of  consolation,  which,  I flatter  myself,  you  will  bA 
happy  to  allow  me.  *Tis  necessary  you  should  return  immediately  to  your  father ; hesitate 
not  then  about  using  the  enclosed  ; your  complying  with  my  request,  will  prove  that  you 
yet  retain  a friendship  for 

Mobtimes. 

‘‘  What  a sum,”  cried  the  housekeeper,  as  she  examined  the  note, 
^ what  a nice  little  independency  would  this,  in  addition  to  what  I 
have  already  saved,  be  for  an  honest  woman  I What  a pity  it  is  such 
a creature  as  it  is  designed  for,  should  possess  it?”  The  house- 
keeper, like  her  lady,  was  fertile  in  invention : to  be  sure  there  was 
some  danger  in  her  present  scheme,  but  for  such  a prize  it  was 
worth  her  while  to  run  some  risk.  Could  she  but  get  Amanda  off, 
ere  the  carriage  from  Lord  Mortimer  arrived,  she  believed  all  would 
succeed  as  she  could  wish.  Amanda,  ignorant  as  she  was  of  Lord 
Mortimer’s  intentions,  would  not,  consequently,  be  influenced  bj’ 
them,  to  oppose  anything  she  could  do.  Full  of  this  idea,  she  rai: 
out,  and  calling  a footman,  high  in  her  favour,  desired  him  immedi- 
ately to  procure  a travelling  chaise  for  Miss  Fitzalan.  She  then 
returned  to  Amanda,  who  was  just  beginning  to  move. 

‘‘  Come,  come,”  cried  she,  going  to  her,  and  rouglily  shaking  her 
shoulder,  “ have  done  with  those  tragedy  airs,  and  prepare  yourselt 
against  the  carriage  you  ordered,  comes : it  will  be  at  the  door  in  a 
few  minutes.” 

Amanda  looked  around  the  room,  “ Is  Lord  Mortimer  gone  then  ?” 
said  she. 

“ Lord,  to  be  sure  he  is,”  cried  the  housekeeper,  “ he  has  left  you 
on  the  floor,  and  as  he  went  out,  he  said  you  should  never  have 
another  opportunity  of  deceiving  him.” 

A sudden  phrenzy  seemed  to  seize  Amanda : she  wrung  her  hands, 
called^pon  Lord  Mortimer  in  the  impassionate  language  of  despair, 
and  flung  herself  on  the  ground,  exclaiming,  “ this  last  stroke  is  more 
than  1 can  bear.” 

The  liousekeeper  grew  alarmed,  lest  her  agitation  should  retard 
her  departure;  she  raised  her  forcibly  from  the  ground  and  said^ 

she  must  compose  herself  to  begin  her  journey,  which  was  unavoid 


802 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Bblo,  as  tiie  marcliioness  had  given  absolute  orders  to  have  her  sent 
from  the  house  early  in  the  morning.” 

“ Accursed  house !”  said  Amanda,  whose  reason  was  restored  by 
the  strenuous  remonstrances  of  the  housekeeper,  “ Oh  I that  I had 
never  entered  it.”  She  then  told  her  companion,  ‘4f  she  would 
assist  her,  as  she  was  almost  too  weak  to  do  anything  herself,  she 
would  be  ready  against  the  carriage  came.”  The  housekeeper  acd 
maid  accordingly  attended  her  to  her  chamber ; the  former  brought 
her  drops,  and  the  latter  assisted  in  putting  on  her  habit,  and  packing 
up  her  clothes.  Amanda  having  secured  her  trunks,  desired  they 
might  he  sent  by  the  first  opportunity,  to  Castle  Carberry ; she  had 
left  a great  many  clothes  there,  so  took  nothing  at  present  with  her 
but  a small  quantity  of  linen.  She  had  but  a few  guineas  in  her 
purse,  her  watch,  however,  was  valuable  : and  if  she  had  money 
enough  to  carry  her  to  Dublin,  she  knew  there  she  might  procure  a 
BuflScient  sum  on  it  to  carry  her  home. 

At  last  the  carriage  came;  with  a trembling  form,  and  a half 
broken  heart,  Amanda  entered  it.  She  saw  Nicholas  the  footman, 
who  had  procured  it,  ready  mounted  to  attend  her.  She  told  him  it 
was  unnecessary  to  do  so,  but  he  declared  he  could  not  think  of  letting 
so  young  a lady  travel  unprotected.  She  was  pleased  at  his  attention; 
she  had  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  her  forlorn  situation,  and  now  dropt 
a tear  of  sweet  sensibility  at  finding  she  was  not  utterly  deserted  by 
every  human  being.  The  carriage  took  the  road  to  Park-Gate,  as 
Amanda  chose  to  embark  from  thence,  the  journey  being  so  much 
nearer  to  it  than  to  Holyhead.  It  was  now  about  eight  o’clock ; after 
travelling  about  four  hours,  the  chaise  stopt  at  a small  house  on  the 
road  side,  which  appeared  to  be  a common  ale-house.  Amanda  was 
unwilling  to  enter  it,  but  the  horses  were  here  to  be  changed ; and 
she  was  shown  into  a dirty  parlour,  where  almost  sinking  with 
weakness,  she  ordered  tea  to  be  immediately  brought  in.  She  was 
much  astonished,  as  she  sat  at  the  tea-table,  to  see  Nicholas  ei^r  the 
room,  with  a familiar  air,  and  seat  hin^elf  by  her.  She  stared  at 
first,  supposing  him  intoxicated ; but  perceiving  no  sign  of  this  on  his 
countenance,  began  to  fear  the  insults  she  had  received  at  the  marquis’s 
made  him  think  himself  authorized  to  treat  her  with  this  insolence. 
Slie  rose  abruptly,  and  summoning  all  her  resolution  to  her  aid, 
desired  him  to  retire,  adding,  “ if  his  attendance  was  requisite,  she 
would  ring  for  him.” 


803 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

Nicholas  also  quitted  his  seat,  and  following  her,  canght  her  in  his 
arms,  exclaiming,  “ bless  us,  how  hoity  toity  you  are  grown." 

Amanda  shrieked,  and  stamped  on  the  floor,  in  an  agony  of  terror 
and  indignation. 

Well  now  really,”  said  he,  after  what  happened  at  home,  I think 
you  need  not  he  so  coy  with  me.” 

“Oh!  save  me,  heaven,  from  this  wretch,”  was  all  the  affrighted 
Amanda  could  articulate. 

The  door  opened,  a waiter  appeared,  and  told  Nicholas  he  was 
wanted  without.  Nicholas  released  Amanda,  and  ran  directly  from 
the  room.  Amanda  sunk  upon  a chair,  and  her  head  turned  giddy  at 
the  idea  of  the  dangers  with  which  she  was  surrounded.  She  saw 
herself  in  the  power  of  a wretch,  perhaps  wretches,  for  the  house 
seemed  a proper  place  for  scenes  of  villany,  without  the  means  of 
delivering  herself.  She  walked  to  the  window : a confused  idea  of 
getting  through  it,  and  running  from  the  house,  darted  into  her  mind, 
hut  she  turned  from  it  in  agony,  at  seeing  a number  of  countrymen 
drinking  before  it.  She  now  Could  only  raise  her  feeble  hands  to 
heaven  to  supplicate  its  protection. 

She  past  some  minutes  in  this  manner,  when  the  lock  turned,  and 
made  her  shudder : but  it  was  the  landlady  alone  who  entered ; she 
came,  she  said,  with  Nicholas’  respectful  duty,  and  he  was  sorry  he 
was  obliged  to  go  back  to  town,  without  seeing  her  safe  to  her 
journey’s  end. 

“Is  he  really  gone  ?”  asked  Amanda,  with  all  the  eagerness  of  joy. 

“Yes,”  the  woman  said,  “a  person  had  followed  him  from  London, 
on  purpose  to  bring  him  back.” 

“ Is  the  carriage  ready  ?”  cried  Amanda. 

She  was  informed  it  was. 

“ Let  me  fly,  then,”  said  she,  running  to  the  door,  “ Let  me  fly,  or 
the  wretch  may  return.” 

The  landlady  impeded  her  progress  to  tell  her  the  bill  was  not  yet 
settled.  Amanda  pulled  out  her  purse,  and  besought  her  not  to 
detain  her.  This  the  woman  had  no  desire  to  do : things  were  there- 
fore settled  without  delay  between  them,  and  Amanda  was  driven, 
with  as  much  expedition  as  she  could  desire,  from  the  terrifying 
mansion.  The  chaise  had  proceeded  about  two  miles,  when  in  the 
middle  of  a solitary  road,  or  gather  Ians,  by  the  side  of  a wood,  it 


304 


CHILDRi».N  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Buddenly  stopt.  Amanda,  alarmed  at  every  incident,  hastily  looked 
oat  and  inquired  what  was  the  matter;  but  how  impossible  to  describe 
her  terror,  when  she  beheld  Colonel  Belgrave,  and  hTicholas  standing 
by  him.  She  shrunk  back,  and  entreated  the  postillion  to  drive  on ; 
but  he  heeded  not  her  entreaty.  Nicholas  opened  the  door,  and 
Belgrave  sprang  into  the  carriage.  Amanda  attempted  to  btrst  open 
the  door  at  the  opposite  side,  but  he  caught  her  to  his  bosom  and  the 
horses  set  off  at  full  speed.  Colonel  Belgrave’s  valet  had  been 
secreted  by  Mrs.  Jane  the  preceding  night  in  the  house,  that  he  might 
be  able  to  give  his  master  intelligence  of  all  that  passed  within  it,  in 
consequence  of  his  being  discovered  in  the  closet.  On  hearing  that 
the  family  were  gone  to  the  marquis’s  villa,  Belgrave  believed  he 
could  easily  prevail  on  the  domestics,  to  deliver  up  Amanda  to  him. 
Elated  with  this  hope,  he  reached  the  house,  attended  by  his  valet, 
just  after  she  had  quitted  it.  The  housekeeper  hesitated  to  inform 
him  of  the  road  she  had  taken,  till  she  had  procured  what  she  knew 
would  be  the  consequence  of  her  hesitation,  a large  bribe.  Horses 
were  then  immediately  procured,  and  Belgrave  and  his  servant  set  off 
in  pursuit  of  Amanda.  The  sight  of  a travelling  chaise  at  the  little 
inn  already  mentioned,  prompted  their  inquiries ; and  on  finding  the 
chaise  waited  for  Amanda,  the  colonel  retired  to  a private  room,  sent 
for  Nicholas,  and  secured  him  in  his  interest.  It  was  settled  that 
they  should  repair  to  the  wood,  by  which  the  postillion  was  bribed  to 
pass,  and  from  thence  proceed  to  a country  house  of  the  colonel’s. 
Their  scheme  accomplished,  Nicholas,  happy  in  the  service  he  h^d 
done,  or  rather  the  reward  he  had  obtained  for  that  service,  again 
turned  his  face  towards  London. 

The  carriage  and  attendants  Lord  Mortimer  procured  for  Amanda, 
arrived  even  earlier  than  the  housekeeper  had  expected,  and  she 
blessed  her  lucky  stars  for  the  precipitancy  with  which  she  had 
hurried  off  Amanda. 

They  were  followed  by  his  loi*dship  himself,  whose  wretched  heart 
could  not  support  the  idea  of  letting  Amanda  depart  without  once 
more  beholding  her.  Great  was  his  dismay,  his  astonishment,  when 
the  housekeeper  informed  him  she  was  gone. 

“Gone!”  he  repeated,  changing  colour. 

The  housekeeper  said,  that  without  her  knowledge  Miss  Fitzalau 
had  a chaise  hired,  and  the  moment  it  came4o  the  door,  stepped  into 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


305 


it,  notwithstanding  she  was  told  his  lordship  meant  to  proTide  every 
thing  proper  for  her  journey  himself;  “hut  she  said,  my  lord,”  cried 
the  housekeeper,  “ she  wanted  none  of  your  care,  and  that  she  could 
never  get  fast  enough  from  a house,  or  from  people,  where  and  by 
whom  she  had  been  so  ill  treated.” 

Lord  Mortimer  asked  if  she  had  any  attendant,  and  whether  she 
took  the  letter. 

The  housekeeper  answered  both  these  questions  in  the  affirmative ; 
“Truly,  my  lord,”  she  continued,  “I  believe  your  lordship  said 
something  in  that  letter  which  pleased  her,  for  she  smiled  on  opening 
it,  and  said,  “Well,  well,  this  is  something  like  comfort.” 

“ And  was  she  really  so  mean,”  he  was  on  the  point  of  asking,  but 
he  timely  checked  a question  which  was  springing  from  a heart  that 
sickened  at  finding  the  object  of  his  tenderest  affections  unworthy  in 
every  respect  of  possessing  them.  Every  idea  of  this  kind  soon  gave 
way  to  anxiety  on  her  account ; his  heart  misgave  him  at  her  under- 
taking so  long  a journey  under  the  protection  of  a common  servant ; 
and  unable  to  endure  his  apprehensions,  he  determined  instantly  to 
pursue,  and  see  her  safe  himself  to  the  destined  port. 

The  woman  who  had  hitherto  sat  in  the  chaise  was  ordered  home ; 
he  entered  it  with  eagerness,  and  promised  liberally  to  reward  the 
postillions  if  they  used  expedition.  They  had  changed  horses  but 
once,  when  Lord  Mortimer  saw  Kicholas  approaching,  whom,  at  the 
first  glance,  he  knew.  He  stopped  the  carriage,  and  called  out, 

“ Where  have  you  left  Miss  Eitzalan  ?” 

“Faith,  my  lord,”  cried  Nicholas,  instantly  stopping  and  taking 
off  his  hat,  “ in  very  good  company ; I left  her  with  Colonel  Belgrave, 
who  was  waiting  by  appointment  on  the  road  for  her.” 

“Oh!  horrible  infatuation!”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “that  nothing 
can  snatch  her  from  the  arms  of  infamy.” 

The  postillion  desired  to  know  whether  ha  should  return  to 
London. 

Lord  Mortimer  hesitated,  and  at  last  desired  nim  to  go  on  accord- 
ing to  his  first  directions.  He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Park-gate,  and 
discover  whether  Amanda  had  returned  to  Ireland.  They  had  not 
proceeded  far,  when  they  overtook  a travelling  chaise.  As  Lord 
Mortimer  passed  he  looked  into  it,  and  beheld  Amanda  reclining  on 
the  bosom,  of  Belgrave.  He  trembled  universally,  closed  his  eyes, 


806 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE? 


aud  sighed  eut  the  name  of  the  perfidious  Amanda.  When  they  had 
got  some  way  before  the  other  chaise,  he  desired  the  postillion  to 
strike  off  into  another  road,  which,  by  a circuit  of  a few  miles,  would 
bring  them  hack  to  London.  » Amanda,  it  was  evident,  had  put 
herself  under  the  protection  of  Belgrave,  and  to  know  whether  she 
went  to  Ireland  was  now  of  little  consequence  to  vim,  as  he  supposed 
her  unreclaimahle ; hut  how  impossible  to  describe  his  distress  and 
confusion,  when  almost  the  first  object  he  beheld  on  alighting  in  St. 
James’  Square,  was  his  aunt.  Lady  Martha  Dormer,  who,  in  compli- 
ance with  his  urgent  request,  had  hastened  to  London.  Had  a 
spectre  crossed  his  sight,  he  could  not  have  been  more  shocked. 

“Well,  my  dear  Frederick,”  said  her  ladyship,  “you  see  I lost  no 
time  in  obeying  your  wishes : I have  flown  hither,  I may  indeed  say, 
on  the  wings  of  love ; but  where  is  this  little  divinity  of  thine  ? I 
long  to  have  a peep  at  her  goddess-ship.” 

Lord  Mortimer,  inexpressibly  shocked,  turned  to  the  vnndow. 

“I  shall  see,  to  be  sure,”  cried  her  ladyship,  “quite’  a little 
paragon : positively,  Frederick,  I will  be  introduced  this  very  even- 
ing.” 

“My  dear  aunt,  my  dear  Lady  Martha,”  said  Lord  Mortimer, 
impatiently,  “ for  heaven’s  sake  spare  me.” 

“ But  tell  me,”  she  continued,  “ when  I shall  commence  this  attack 
upon  your  father’s  heart.” 

“ Hever,  never,”  sighed  Lord  Mortimer,  half  distracted. 

“ What,  you  suppose  he  will  prove  inflexible  ? but  I do  not  despair 
of  convincing  you  to  the  contrary ; tell  me,  Frederick,  when  the  litt’e 
charmer  can  be  seen.” 

“Oh  God!”  cried  Mortimer,  striking  his  forehead,  “she  is  lost,” 
said  he,  “ she  is  lost  forever.” 

Lady  Martha  was  alarmed ; she  now,  for  the  first  time,  noticed  the 
wild  and  pallid  looks  of  her  nephew. 

“ Gracious  heavens!”  she  exclaimed,  “what  is  the  matter?” 

The  di'eadful  explanation  Lord  Mortimer  now  found  himself  under 
the  necessity  of  giving:  the  shame  of  acknowledging  he  was  so 
deceived ; the  agony  he  suffered  from  that  deception,  joined  to  the 
excessive  agitation  and  fatigue  he  had  suffered  the  preceding  night, 
and  the  present  day,  so  powerfully  assailed  him  at  this  moment,  tlmt 
his  sensors  suddenly  gave  way,  and  he  actually  fainted  on  the  floor. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


307 


What  a sight  for  the  tender  Lady  Martha;  she  saw  something 
dreadful  had  happened,  and  what  tins  (v^as,  Lord  Mortimer,  as  soon 
as  he  recovered,  informed  her. 

He  then  retired  to  his  chamber;  he  could  neither  converse,  nor 
bear  to  be  conversed  with:  his  fondest  hopes  were  blasted;  nor 
could  he  forego  the  sad  indulgence  of  mourning  over  them  in  soli- 
tude; he  felt  almost  convinced  that  the  hold  Amanda  had  on  Ins 
affections  could  not  be  withdrawn;  he  had  considered  her  as  scarcely 
less  than  his  wife,  and  had  she  been  really  such,  her  present  conduct 
could  not  have  given  him  more  anguish.  Had  she  been  snatched 
from  him  by  the  hand  of  death ; had  she  been  wedded  to  a worthy 
character,  he  could  have  summoned  fortitude  to  his  aid,  but  to  find 
her  the  prey  of  a villain,  was  a stroke  too  horrible  to  bear,  at  least 
for  a long  period,  with  patience. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

And  let  a maid  thy  pity  share, 

Who  seeks  for  rest  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

Goldssiith. 

Amanda  had  fainted  soon  after  Colonel  Belgrave  entered  the  car- 
and  she  was  reclining  on  his  bosom  in  a state  of  insensibility, 
when  Lord  Mortimer  past.  In  this  situation  she  continued,  till  they 
tiad  gained  a solitary  road,  when  the  carriage  stopt,  and  water  pro- 
cured from  an  adjacent  cottage,  being  sprinkled  on  her  face  she 
cecovered : but  either  by  arguments,  or  action,  she  was  now  unable 
^o  oppose  Belgrave ; she  felt  a Aveakness  through  her  whole  frame, 
which  she  believed  the  forerunner  of  death ; and  a languor  on  her 
mind  that  almost  deprived  it  of  the  perception  of  misery. 

The  refreshments  ordered  to  her,  she  could  only  refuse  by  a motion 
of  her  head ; and  in  tliis  manner  they  proceeded  till  about  nine  o’clock 
at  night,  when  they  entered  an  extensive  wood,  in  the  very  centre  of 
which  stood  Colonel  Belgi*ave’s  mansion.  He  carried  Amanda  him- 
self into  it,  and  laid  her  upon  a sofa  in  a large  parlour.  Some  female 


808 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


domestics  appeared  with  drops  and  cordials,  to  try  to  recover  her 
from  the  almost  hfeless  state  in  which  she  lay.  One  of  them  pres- 
ented a letter  to  Colonel  Belgrave,  which  excited  no  little  perturhatioru 
in  his  mind ; it  came  express  to  inform  him  that  his  uncle,  whoso 
estate  and  title  he  was  heir  to,  lay  at  the  point  of  death,  and  that  his 
presence  immediately  was  required. 

The  colonel  was  not  so  absolutely  engrossed  by  love  as  to  be  inca- 
pable of  attending  to  his  interest.  An  addition  to  his  fortune  was 
extremely  agreeable,  as  his  affairs  were  somewhat  deranged ; and  as 
Amanda  was  not  in  a situation  at  present  to  comply  with  any  over- 
tures he  should  make,  his  resolution  was  immediately  formed  to  set 
off  without  delay,  and  against  his  return,  he  trusted  Amanda  would 
not  only  be  recovered,  but  willing  to  accede  to  his  wishes. 

He  dismissed  the  woman  who  had  brought  her  a little  to  herself, 
and  taking  her  hand,  informed  her  of  the  painful  necessity  he  was 
under  of  departing  for  a short  time : he  also  mentioned  his  hopes,  that 
on  his  return  he  should  have  no  obstacle  thrown  in  the  way  of  his 
happiness  by  her.  “You  must  be  sensible,  my  dear  Amanda,”  said 
he,  with  coolness,  “ that  your  reputation  is  as  much  gone  as  if  you 
had  complied  with  my  wishes : since  it  is  sacrificed,  why  not  enjoy 
the  advantages  that  may,  that  will  certainly  attend  the  reality  of  that 
sacrifice.” 

“Monster!”  cried  Amanda,  “your  arts  may  have  destroyed  my 
fame,  but  my  innocence  bids  defiance  to  your  power.” 

“ Conquer  your  obstinacy,  Amanda,”  replied  he,  “ against  I return, 
or  I shall  not  promise  but  what  I may  at  last  be  irritated.  As  you 
will  have  no  occasion  for  money  here,  you  must  excuse  me,  ray  dear 
creature,  if  I take  your  purse  into  my  own  keeping : my  domestics 
may  be  faithful,  when  they  have  no  inducement  to  the  contrary  : but 
no  bribery,  no  corruption,  you  know.” 

He  then  deliberately  took  Amanda’s  purse  and  watch  from  her 
pocket,  and  deposited  them  in  his  own.  He  had  already  given  direc- 
tions to  his  servants  concerning  the  treatment  of  Amanda,  and  now 
ordered  them  to  carry  her  to  a chamber,  and  make  her  some  refresh- 
ment. 

“ Heflect,  Amanda,”  said  he,  ere  she  retired,  “ on  your  present 
situation,  and  timely  estimate  the  advantages  I offer  to  your  accep- 
tance ; wealth,  pleasure,  the  attention  of  a man  who  adores  you,  are 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


809 


not  to  be  despised.  Upon  my  sou"  it  gi*ieves  me  to  leave  you,  but  the 
jtys  of  meeting  will  I trust,  pay  the  pangs  of  absence.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  attempted  to  embrace  her,  but  she  faintly  shrieked, 
and  shrunk  from  his  grasp.  He  looked  provoked,  but  as  he  had  no 
time  to  lose,  he  reserved  a declaration  of  his  anger  for  another  oppor- 
tunity, and  directly  set  off  for  his  uncle’s. 

Amanda  was  supported  to  a chamber,  and  lay  down  in  her  clothes 
on  a bed.  They  offered  her  bread  and  wine,  but  she  was  too  sick  to 
touch  any.  To  remonstrate  with  the  insolent  looking  creatures  who 
surrounded  her,  she  knew  would  be  unavailing,  and  she  iurned  her 
face  on  the  pillow  to  stifle  her  sobs,  as  she  believed  they  would  exult  in 
her  distress.  Death  she  thought  approaching,  and  the  idea  of  being 
separated  from  the  dear  objects  who  would  have  soothed  its  last 
pangs,  was  dreadful ; her  father  in  agony,  and  Oscar,  her  beloved 
brother  bewailing  her  with  tears  of  sorrow,  were  the  images  fancy 
presented  to  her  view. 

“Dear  objects  of  my  love,”  she  softly  exclaimed,  “Amanda  shall 
no  more  behold  you,  but  her  last  sigh  will  be  breathed  for  you.  Ah ! 
why,  why,”  she  cried,  “ did  I suffer  myself  to  be  separated  from  my 
father?” 

A young  woman  leaned  over  Amanda,  and  surveyed  her  with  the 
most  malignant  scrutiny ; she  was  daughter  to  Belgrave’s  steward, 
and  neither  she  nor  her  father  possessed  sufiScient  virtue  to  make 
them  reject  the  offers  Belgrave  made  them  on  her  account.  His 
attachment  to  her  was  violent,  but  transient,  and  in  the  height  of  it 
he  made  her  mistress  of  the  mansion  she  now  occupied,  which  char- 
acter she  maintained  with  tyrannic  sway  over  the  rest  of  her  domes- 
tics. Belgrave  was  really  ignorant  of  the  violence  of  her  temper,  and 
had  no  idea  she  would  dare  dispute  his  inclinations,  or  disobey  his 
orders  ; he  believed  she  would  be  subservient  to  both,  and  from  this 
belief  gave  Amanda  particularly  into  her  charge. 

But  scarcely  had  he  departed,  ere  she  swore,  “ that  let  the  conse- 
quence be  what  it  would,  the  vile  wretch  he  had  brought  into  the 
house  to  insult;  her,  should  never  remain  in  it:  she  shall  tramp,”  cried 
she,  “ though  I follow  her  myself,  when  he  returns,  for  such  a little 
hussey  shall  never  triumph  over  me.” 

The  servants,  ignorant  and  timorous,  did  not  attempt  to  oppose 
her. 


310 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


“Come,  madam,”  said  slie,  suddenly  seizing  Amanda’s  arm,  and 
pulling  her  from  the  pillow,  “ have  done  with  these  languishing  airs, 
and  march.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ?”  cried  A manda,  trembling  at  her  inflamed 
countenance. 

“ Why  I mean  that  you  shall  quit  this  house  directly,  and  I wonder- 
Colonel  Belgrave  could  have  the  assurance  to  bring  such  a creature  as 
you  into  it.” 

“You  mistake,  indeed,”  said  Amanda,  “treachery,  not  inclination, 
brought  me  into  it,  and  I am  not  what  you  suppose ; if,  as  you  say, 
you  allow  me  to  depart,  I shall  ever  regard  you  as  a friend,  and 
in  every  prayer  I offer  up  to  heaven  for  myself,  you  shall  be  remem- 
bered.” 

“ Oh  dear,  but  you  shall  not  impose  upon  me  so  easily ; come,” 
continued  she,  turning  to  her  maid,  “ and  help  me  to  conduct  this 
fine  lady  to  the  hall  door.” 

“ Gracious  heavens,”  said  Amanda,  who  by  this  time  was  taken  or 
rather  dragged  from  the  bed,  “ what  are  you  about  doing  with  me  ? 
Though  I rejoice  to  quit  the  house,  yet  surely,  surely,”  she  cried,  and 
her  soul  recoiled  at  the.  idea,  “ without  a guide  at  this  hour  of  the 
night,  you  will  not  turn  me  from  it.” 

She  then  mentioned  Colonel  Belgrave’s  having  deprived  her  of  the 
purse  and  watch,  and  besought  the  woman  in  the  most  pathetic  terms, 
to  supply  her  with  a small  sum,  which  she  solemnly  assured  her 
should  be  returned,  as  soon  as  she  reached  her  friends;  and  ended 
with  saying,  she  should  depart  with  gratitude  and  joy,  if  she  complied 
with  her  request,  and  allowed  some  one  to  guide  her  to  a place  where 
she  might  procure  a carriage. 

“ Such  madams  as  you,”  replied  the  imperious  woman,  are  never  at 
a loss  for  means  of  procuring  money,  or  a place  to  go  to : I see  through 
your  art  well  enough ; you  want  me  to  pity  you,  that  I may  let  you 
stay  till  your  colonel  returns:  but  who  would  be  fool  then  I wonder? 
the  tables,  I warrant,  would  soon  be  turned  upon  me:  No,  no,  out  you 
go  this  moment.” 

So  saying,  she  rudely  seized  Amanda,  and  assisted  by  another 
woman,  hurried  her  down  stairs,  and  out  of  the  house  directly : they 
carried  her  to  an  intricate  part  of  the  wood,  and  then  ran  back,  leav- 
ing the  helpless  mourner  leaning  against  a tree. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


311 


Amanda  looked  around  her : dark  and  awful  were  the  shades  of 
tlie  wood : no  light  appeared  but  what  came  from  a few  wandering 
stars,  which  only  served  to  render  darkness  visible.  “Have  mercy 
upon  me,  heaven,”  groaned  Amanda,  as  she  felt  herself  sinking  to  the 
earth.  The  cold  acted  as  a kind  of  restorative,  and  almost  immediate- 
ly revived  her.  She  rested  her  head  against  a little  bank,  and  as  she 
thus  reclined,  a tender  sadness  pervaded  her  soul,  at  the  idea  ot  her 
father’s  sorrow  when  he  heard  of  her  fate.  “ When  he  hears,”  cned 
she,  “ that  I was  driven  from  the  house,  as  unworthy  of  pity  or  pro- 
tection from  any  being ; that  his  Amanda,  whom  he  cherished  in  his 
bosom  as  the  darling  of  his  age,’'was  denied  the  pity  he  would  have, 
shewn  the  greatest  wretch  that  crawls  upon  the  earth ; and  that  she 
perished  without  shelter,  it  will  break  his  heart  entirely.  Poor  Oscar, 
too,  alas ! I shall  be  a source  of  wretchedness  to  both.  Will  Lord 
Mortimer  lament  when  he  hears  of  my  fate  ? Alas ! I cannot  believe 
that  he  will : he  that  could  leave  me  in  the  arms  of  insensibility,  and  so 
readily  believe  ill  of  me,  must  have  a heart  steeled  against  compassion 
for  my  sufferings.  But  my  unhappy  father  and  brother  will  never  doubt 
my  innocence,  and  by  them  I shall  be  tenderly  and  truly  mourned.” 

The  idea  of  their  sufferings  at  last  recalled  her  wandering  thoughts, 
and  pity  for  those  sufferings,  made  her  endeavour  to  support  her  own, 
that  she  might  be  able  to  make  some  efforts  for  preserving  a life  so 
precious  to  them : besides,  as  she  reflected,  she  could  not  but  attribute 
her  expulsion  from  the  house  of  infamy,  to  the  immediate  interposition 
of  Providence  in  her  favour;  and  whilst  hei  heart  swelled  with 
gratitude  at  the  idea,  her  fortitude  gradually  returned.  Sho  arose, 
but  the  vigour  of  her  nerves  was  not  equa  to  the  ardour  of  her 
intentions:  she  walked  on,  and  as  she  proceeded,  the  gloom  grew 
more  profound : the  paths  were  intricate,  and  her  progress  was  often 
impeded  by  the  roots  of  trees  and  the  branches  which  grew  about 
them.  After  wandering  about  a considerable  time,  she  at  last  began 
to  think,  that  instead  of  gaining  the  skirts,  she  had  penetrated  into 
the  very  centre  of  the  wood,  and  that  to  quit  it  till  morning  would  be 
impossible.  Yielding  to  this  idea,  or  rather  to  her  excessive  weari- 
ness, she  was  seeking  for  a place  to  sit  down  on,  when  a faint  light 
glimmered  before  her ; she  instantly  darted  through  the  path  from 
whence  it  gleamed,  and  found  herself  at  the  extremity  of  the  wood, 
and  that  the  light  proceeded  from  a small  hamlet  contiguous  to  it. 


312 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Thither  she  walked,  as  fast  as  her  tremhliDg  limbs  would  cany  her. 
A profound  stillness  reigned  around,  only  interrupted  by  the  hoarse 
and  hollow  barking  of  some  distant  dogs,  which,  in  such  an  hour,  had 
something  particularly  solemn  in  it.  The  stillness,  and  sudden  disap- 
pearance of  lights  from  various  windows,  convinced  Amanda  that 
every  cottage  was  closed  for  the  night;  “and  were  they  open,”  said 
she,  “ I perhaps  should  be  denied  Access  to  any,  deprived  as  I am,  of 
the  means  of  rewarding  kindness.”  She  shuddered  at  the  idea  of 
passing  a night  unsheltered.  “It  is  now,  indeed,”  said  she,  “I  really 
know  what  it  is  to  feel  for  the  houseless  children  of  want.”  She 
moved  softly  along ; the  echo  of  her  own  steps  alarmed  her,  she  had 
nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  hamlet,  when  before  a neat  cottage, 
divided  from  the  others  by  a clump  of  old  trees,  she  saw  a venerable 
man,  who  might  well  have  passed  for  an  ancient  hermit;  his  grey 
locks  thinly  shaded  his  forehead ; an  expression  of  deep  and  pensive 
thought  was  visible  in  his  countenance ; his  arms  were  fold^ed  on  his 
breast,  and  his  eyes  were  raised  with  a tender  melancholy  to  heaven, 
as  if  that  heaven  lie  contemplated,  was  now  the  abode  of  some 
kindred  and  lamented  spirit.  Surely  such  a being,  thought  she,  will 
pity  me.  She  appr  lached  him, — stood  close  to  him,  yet  was  unno- 
ticed. Thrice  she  attempted  to  speak,  and  thrice  her  heart  failed : at 
last  she  summoned  all  her  courage  to  her  aid,  and  faintly  articulated 
“ pity — ” she  could  add  no  more,  but  fainted  at  his  feet.  The  stran- 
ger’s mind  was  fraught  with  all  the  benevolence  his  countenance 
depictured ; the  transient  glance  he  had  caught  of  Amanda,  interested 
every  tender  feeling ; he  called  to  his  servant,  an  elderly  woman,  his 
only  companion  in  the  cottage,  to  assist  him  in  conveying  her  in. 
The  woman’s  heart  was  as  tender  as  her  master’s,  and  the  youth,  the 
beauty,  and  forlorn  situation  of  Amanda,  equally  excited  their  wonder 
and  pity.  It  was  many  minutes  ere  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  when 
she  did  her  senses  were  quite  bewildered,  and  “ my  father ! alas,  my 
father,  I shall  never  more  behold  him,”  was  all  she  could  articulateo 
She  was  supported  to  a small  chamber,  the  old  woman  undressed  her, 
put  her  to  bed,  and  sat  up  with  her  the  remainder  of  the  night. 
Amanda  often  started ; she  raved  continually  of  Belgrave,  the  author 
of  her  woes,  and  betrayed  the  strongest  horror.  “ The  wound  he  had 
inflicted  on  her  licart,”  she  said,  “ the  hand  of  death  could  only  heal.” 
She  mentioned  the  cruelty  of  the  marchioness ; called  upon  her  father 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


813 


to  save  her  from  destruction,  and  reproached  Mortimer  for  aiding  to 
overwhelm  her  in  disgrace.  She  continued  in  this  situation  three 
days,  during  which  the  old  man  and  his  faithful  servant  watched  her 
with  unremitted  attention.  A neighbouring  apothecary  was  sum^ 
inoned  to  her  aid,  and  a girl  from  one  of  the  cottages  procured  to  sil 
np  with  her  at  night.  The  old  man  frequently  knelt  by  the  bed  side, 
watching  with  anxiety,  for  a favourable  symptom.  Her  incoherent 
expressions  pierced  him  to  the  heart.  He  felt,  from  mournful  sympe^ 
thy,  for  the  father  she  so  pathetically  mentioned,  and  invoked  he-avea 
to  restore  her  to  him. 

The  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  Amanda  after  a long  slumber, 
awoke,  perfectly  restored  to  her  senses ; it  was  many  minutes, 
however,  after  her  awaking,  ere  she  recollected  all  the  circumstances 
that  had  caused  her  present  situation. 

She  at  last  opened  the  curtain,  and  perceived  the  old  woman,  whom 
we  shall  hereafter  call  Eleanor,  seated  by  the  bed  side. 

I fear,”  said  she  with  a languid  smile,  “ I have  been  the  occasion 
of  a great  deal  of  trouble.” 

“ Ho,  no,”  replied  the  kind  Eleanor,  delighted  to  hear  her  speak  so 
calmly,  and  drawing  back  a little  of  the  curtain  at  the  same  time,  to 
observe  her  looks. 

Amanda  inquired  how  long  she  had  been  ill.  Eleanor  informed 
her,  and  added,  “ heaven,  my  dear  child,  was  kind  to  you,  in  throw- 
ing you  in  my  master’s  way,  who  delights  in  befriending  the  help- 
less.” 

“ Heaven  will  reward  him,”  exclaimed  Amanda. 

The  chamber  was  gloomy ; she  requested  one  of  the  shutters  might 
be  opened.  Eleanor  complied  with  her  desire,  and  a ray  of  the 
declining  sun  darting  through  the  casement,  cheered  her  pensive  heart. 

She  perfectly  remembered  the  venerable  figure  she  had  beheld  on  the 
threshold  of  the  cottage,  and  was  impatient  to  express  her  gratitude 
to  him.  The  next  day,  she  trusted,  would  give  her  an  opportunity 
of  doing  so,  as  she  then  resolved,  if  possible,  to  rise.  The  wish  of  her 
Boul  was  to  be  with  her  father,  ere  he  could  receive  any  intimation 
of  what  had  happened.  She  resolved  to  communicate  to  her  benevo- 
lent host,  the  incidents  which  had  placed  her  in  such  a situation ; and 
ehe  flattered  herself,  on  hearing  them,  he  would  accommodate  her 
with  the  means  of  returning  to  Ireland:  if  unable  (unwilling  she 

14 


314 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


could  not  think  she  should  find  him)  to  do  this,  she  then  intended 
writing  to  her  father. — This  measure,  however,  she  fervently 
trusted,  she  should  have  no  occasion  to  take,  as  she  well  knew  the 
shock  such  a letter  would  give  him. 

Contrary  to  the  inclinations  of  Eleanor,  she  rose  the  next  day,  and 
as  soon  as  she  was  drest,  sent  to  request  Mr.  Howell’s  company 
Eleanor  had  informed  her  of  her  master’s  name. 

The  chamber  was  on  a ground  floor;  before  the  window  were  a 
row  of  neat  white  cottages ; and  behind  them  rose  a range  of  lofty 
hills,  covered  to  the  very  summit  with  trees,  now  just  bursting  into 
verdure ; before  the  cottage  ran  a clear  murmuring  rivulet,  at  which 
some  young  girls  were  washing  clothes,  whilst  others  spread  them 
upon  hedges,  and  all  beguiled  their  labour  with  singing,  chatting  and 
laughing  together. 

“ Ah  I happy  creatures,”  cried  Amanda,  “ screened  by  your  native 
hills,  you  know  nothing  of  the  vices  or  miseries  of  the  great  world : 
no  snares  lurk  beneath  the  flowery  paths  you  tread,  to  wring  your 
hearts  with  anguish,  and  nip  the  early  blossoms  of  your  youth.” 

The  old  man  appeared  and  interrupted  her  meditations.  .When  ho 
beheld  the  pale  face  of  Amanda,  beaming  with  angelic  sweetness: 
when  he  saw  her  emaciated  hand  extended  towards  him,  while  her 
soft  voice  uttered  her  grateful  acknowledgements,  his  emotions  could 
not  be  supprest:  he  prest  her  hand  between  his:  tears  rolled  down 
the  furrows  of  his  face,  and  he  exclaimed, 

“ I thank  the  Almighty  for  reviving  this  sweet  flower.” 

A deep  sob  from  Amanda,  proved  how  much  he  had  affected  her 
feelings. 

He  was  alarmed,  and  hastily  endeavoured  to  compose  his  own,  out 
of  regard  to  hers. 

When  a little  composed,  with  grateful  sweetness  she  continned  to 
thank  him  for  his  kindness. 

Pity,”  said  she,  “ is  a sweet  emotion  to  excite ; yet  from  you, 
without  esteem,  it  would  be  humiliating ; and  esteem  I cannot  flatter 
myself  with  obtaining,  till  I have  accounted  for  being  a wretched 
wanderer.” 

She  then  gave  a brief  account  of  her  father,  and  the  events  of  her 

life. 

“ Ah  1 - my  dear,”  cried  the  old  man,  as  she  finished  her  narrative, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


815 


you  have  reason,  indeed,  to  regret  your  knowledge  of  Belgrave,  but 
ihe  sorrow  he  has  occasioned  you,  I believe  and  trust,  will  be  bui 
transient : that  which  he  has  given  me  will  be  as  lasting  as  my  life : 
you  look  astonished: — alas!  but  for  him,  I might  now  have  been 
blest  with  a daughter  as  lovely  and  as  amiable  as  Fitzalan’s.  I see 
you  are  too  delicate  to  express  the  curiosity  my  words  have  inspired 
but  I shall  not  hesitate  to  gratify  it ; my  relation  will  draw  the  tear 
of  pity  from  your  eye ; but  the  sorrows  of  others  often  reconcile  us  to 
our  own.” 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

And  oft  as  ease  and  health  retire, 

To  breezy  lawn  or  forest  deep, 

The  friend  shall  riew  yon  whitening  spire, 

And  mid  the  varied  landscape  weep  ; 

But  thou  who  own’st  that  earthy  bed, 

Ah  I what  will  every  dirge  avail  I 

Collin’s  Ode  on  Thomson. 

Many  years  are  now  elapsed  since  I took  up  my  residence  in  this 
sequestered  hamlet.  I retired  to  it  in  distaste  with  a world,  whoso 
vices  had  robbed  me  of  the  dearest  treasure  of  my  heart.  Two  child- 
ren cheered  my  solitude,  and  in  training  them  up  to  virtue,  I lost  the 
remembrance  of  half  my  cares.  My  son,  when  qualified,  was  sent  to 
Oxford,  as  a friend  had  promised  to  provide  for  him  in  the  church  ; 
but  my  daughter  was  destined  to  retirement,  not  only  from  the  nar- 
rowness of  my  income,  but  from  a thorough  conviction  it  was  best 
calculated  to  ensure  her  felicity.  Juliana  whs  the  child  of  innocence 
and  content,  she  knew  of  no  greater  happiness  than  that  of  promoting 
mine ; of  no  pleasures  but  what  the  hamlet  could  afford,  and  was  one 
of  the  gayest  as  weU  as  the  loveliest  of  its  daughters.  One  fatal 
evening  I suffered  her  to  go,  with  some  of  her  young  companions,  to 
a rustic  ball,  given  by  the  parents  of  Belgrave,  to  their  tenants,  on 
coming  down  to  Woodhouse,  from  which  they  had  been  long  absent. 
The  graces  of  my  child  immediately  attracted  the  notice  of  their  son : 
though  young  in  years,  he  was  already  a protest  libertine;  the  conduct 
of  his  father  had  set  him  an  example  of  dissipation,  which  the  volatility 


Sltf  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 

of  his  own  disposition  too  readily  inclined  him  to  follow.  His  heart 
immediately  conceived  the  basest  schemes  against  Juliana,  which  tne 
obscurity  of  her  situation  prompted  him  to  think  might  readily  be 
accomplished. 

From  this  period  he  took  every  opportunity  of  throwing  himself 
in  her  way ; my  suspicions,  or  rather  my  fears  were  soon  excited,  for 
I knew  not  then  the  real  depravity  of  Belgrave;  but  I knew  that  an 
attachment  between  him  and  my  daughter  would  prove  a source  of 
uneasiness  to  both,  from  the  disparity  fortune  had  placed  between 
them.  My  task  of  convincing  Juliana  of  the  impropriety  of  encourag- 
ing such  an  attachment,  was  not  a difficult  one ; but  alas ! I saw  tho 
conviction  was  attended  with  a pang  of  anguish,  which  pierced  me  to 
the  soul.. 

Belgrave,  from  the  assumed  softness  and  delicacy  of  his  manners,  had 
made  an  impression  on  her  heart,  which  was  not  to  be  erased ; every 
effort,  however,  which  prudence  could  suggest,  she  resolved  to  make, 
and  in  compliance  with  my  wishes,  avoided  Belgrave.  This  conduct 
goon  convinced  him  that  it  would  be  a difficult  matter  to  lull  my  cau- 
tion or  betray  her  innocence ; and  finding  all  his  attempts  to  see  her, 
or  convey  a letter  to  her,  ineffectual,  he  departed  with  his  parents 
from  Woodhouse. 

Juliana  heard  of  his  departure  with  a forced  smile ; but  a starting 
tear,  and  colourless  cheek,  too  clearly  denoted  to  me  the  state  of  her 
mind.  I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  my  sufferings  on  witnessing 
hers : with  my  pity  was  mixed  a degree  of  veneration  for  that  virtue, 
which  in  so  young  a mind  could  make  such  exertions  against  a passion 
disapproved  of  by  a parent. — The  evening  of  his  departure,  no  longer 
under  any  restraint,  she  walked  out  alone,  and  instinctively,  perhaps, 
took  the  road  to  Woodhouse.  She  wandered  to  its  deepest  glooms, 
and  there  gave  way  to  emotions,  which,  from  her  efforts  to  suppress 
them,  were  become  almost  too  painful  to  support.  The  gloom  of  the 
wood  was  heightened  by  the  shades  of  evening,  and  a solemn  stillness 
reigned  around,  well  calculated  to  inspire  pensive  tenderness.  She 
sighed  the  name  of  Belgrave  in  tremulous  accents,  and  lamented 
their  ever  having  met.  A sudden  rustling  among  the  trees  startled 
her,  and  the  next  moment  she  beheld  him  at  her  feet,  exclaiming, 
‘‘  we  have  met,  my  Juliana,  never  more  to  part.” 

Surprise  and  confusion  so  overpowered  her  senses,  as  to  render  her. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


817 


for  some  time,  unable  to  attend  to  bis  raptures.  When  she  grew  com- 
posed, he  told  her  he  was  returned  to  make  her  honourably  his ; bu^^ 
to  effect  this  intention,  a journey  from  the  hamlet  was  requisite. 

She  turned  pale  at  these  words,  and  declared  she  never  would  con* 
sent  to  a clandestine  measure. 

This  declaration  did  not  discourage  Belgrave : he  knew  the  inter- 
est he  had  in  her  heart,  and  this  knowledge  gave  an  energy  to  hia 
arguments,  which  gradually  undermined  the  resolution  of  Juliana. 
Already,  he  said,  she  had  made  a sufficient  sacrifice  to  filial  duty ; 
surely  something  was  now  due  to  love  like  his,  which,  on  her  account, 
would  cheerfully  submit  to  innumerable  difficulties.  As  she  was 
under  age,  a journey  to  Scotland  was  unavoidable,  he  said,  and  he 
would  have  made  me  his  confidant  on  the  occasion,  but  that  he 
feared  my  scrupulous  delicacy  would  have  opposed  his  intentions,  as 
contrary  to  parental  authority.  He  promised  Juliana  to  bring  her 
back  to  the  hamlet  immediately  after  the  ceremony;  in  short,  the 
plausibility  of  his  arguments,  the  tenderness  of  his  persuasions,  and 
the  secret  impulses  of  her  heart,  at  last  produced  the  effect  he  wished, 
and  he  received  a promise  from  her,  to  put  herself  under  his  pro- 
tection that  very  night. 

But  ohl  how  impossible  to  describe  my  agonies  the  ensdng 
morning,  when,  instead  of  my  child,  I found  a letter  in  her  room, 
informing  me  of  her  elopement ; they  were  such  as  a parent  trem- 
bling for  the  fame  and  happiness  of  his  child,  may  conceive ; my 
senses  must  have  sunk  beneath  them<  had  they  long  continued ; but 
Belgrave,  according  to  his  promise,  hastened  back  my  child,  and  as  1 
sat  solitary  and  pensive  in  the  apartment  she  so  often  had  enlivened, 
I suddenly  beheld  her  at  my  feet,  supported  by  Belgrave  as  his  wife. 
So  great  a transition  from  despair  to  comfort,  was  almost  too  power- 
ful for  me  to  support.  I asked  my  heart,  was  its  present  happiness 
real ; I knelt,  I received  my  child  in  my  arms ; in  those  feeble  arms 
I seemed  to  raise  her  with  my  heart  to  heaven  in  pious  gratitude,  for 
her  returning  unsullied.  Yet  when  my  first  transports  wer^  abated, 
I could  not  help  regretting  her  ever  having  consented  to  a clandes- 
tine union.  I entreated  Belgrave  tc  write  in  the  most  submissive 
manner  to  his  father.  He  promised  to  comply  with  my  entreaty,  yet 
hinted  his  fears,  that  his  compliance  would  be  unattended  with  the 
saceess  I hoped.  He  requested,  if  this  should  be  the  case,  I would 


318 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


allow  hiy  wife  to  reside  in  the  cottage  till  he  was  of  age.  Oh  I how 
pleasing  a request  to  my  heart ; a month  passed  away  in  happiness, 
only  allayed  by  not  hearing  from  his  father.  At  the  expiration  of 
that  time,  he  declared  he  must  depart,  having  received  orders  to  join 
his  regiment,  hut  promised  to  return  as  soon  as  possible;  he  also 
promised  to  write,  but  a fortnight  elapsed,  and  no  letter  arrived. 

Juliana  and  I grew  alarmed,  hut  it  was  an  alarm  that  only  pro- 
ceeded from  fears  of  his  being  ill.  We  were  sitting  one  morning  at 
breakfast,  when  the  stopping  of  a carriage  drew  us  from  the  table. 

He  is  cornel  said  Juliana,  he  is  come!  and  she  flew  to  open 
the  door,  when,  instead  of  her  expected  Belgrave,  she  beheld  his 
father,  whose  dark  and  haughty  visage  proclaimed  that  he  came  on 
no  charitable  intent.  Alas ! the  occasion  of  his  visit  was  too  soon 
explained ; he  came  to  have  the  ties,  which  bound  his  son  to  Juliana, 
broken.  My  child,  on  hearing  this,  with  firmness  declared,  that  she 
was  convinced  any  scheme  his  cruelty  might  devise  to  separate  them, 
the  integrity,  as  well  as  tenderness  of  his  son,  would  render  abortive. 

Be  not  too  confident  of  that,  young  lady,  cried  he,  smiling 
maliciously.  He  then  proceeded  to  inform  her,  that  Belgrave,  so 
beloved^  and  in  whose  integrity  she  so  confided,  had  himself  author- 
ized his  intentions,  being  determined  to  avail  himself  of  non-age,  to 
have  the  marriage  broke. 

Juliana  could  bear  no  more : she  sunk  fainting  on  the  bosom  of  her 
wretched  father.  Oh ! what  a situation  was  mine,  when,  as  I clasped 
her  wildly  to  my  heart,  and  called  upon  her  to  revive,  that  heart 
whispered  me,  it  was  cruelty  to  wish  she  should ! Alas  1 too  soon 
she  did,  to  a keen  perception  of  misery.  The  marriage  was  dissolved, 
and  health  and  happiness  fled  from  her  together : yet,  from  compas- 
sion to  me,  I saw  she  struggled  to  support  the  burthen  of  existence 
Every  remedy  which  had  a chance  of  prolonging  it,  I administered ; 
but  alas ! sorrow  was  rooted  in  her  heart,  and  it  was  only  removal, 
which  was  impossible,  that  could  have  effected  her  recovery.  Oh  I 
how  often  have  I stolen  from  my  bed  to  the  door  of  her  apartment, 
trembling,  lest  I should  hear  the  last  groan  escape  her  lips  1 how  often 
have  I then  heard  her  deep  convulsive  sobs,  and  reproached  myself 
for  selfishness  at  the  moment,  for  wishing  the  continuance  of  hei 
being,  which  was  only  wishing  the  continuance  of  her  misery  I Yea, 
I have  then  said,  I resign  her,  my  Creator,  unto  thee : I.  resign  hei. 


CHILDREN  OF  T li  E ABBEY. 


319 


from  a certainty  that  only  witli  tliee  she  can  enjoy  felicity  But 
alas ! in  a moment  frail  nature  has  triumphed  over  such  a resignation, 
and  prostrate  upon  the  ground  I have  implored  heaven  either  to  spare 
the  child,  or  take  the  father  along  with  her. 

She  saw  me  unusually  deprest  one  day,  and  proposed  a walk,  with 
the  hope  that  any  exertion  from  her  might  recruit  my  spirits : but 
when  I saw  my  child  in  the  very  bloom  of  life,  unable  to  sustain  her 
feeble  frame : when  I felt  her  leaning  on  my  almost  nerveless  arm  for 
support,  oh ! how  intolerable  was  the  anguish  that  rived  my  heart ! 
In  vain  by  soft  endearments,  she  strove  to  mitigate  it.  She  motioned 
to  go  towards  Woodhouse;  we  had  got  within  sight  of  the  wood, 
when  she  complained  of  fatigue,  and  sat  down.  She  had  not  been 
many  minutes  in  this  situation,  .when  she  beheld  coming  from  the 
wood,  Belgrave  and  a young  girl  she  knew  to  be  the  steward’s 
daughter.  The  familiar  manner  in  which  they  appeared  conversing, 
left  little  room  to  doubt  of  the  footing  on  which  they  were.  The 
hectic  glow  of  Juliana’s  complexion,  gave  place  to  a deadly  paleness : 
she  arose  and  returned  with  me  in  silence  to  the  cottage,  from 
whence,  in  less  than  a week,  she  was  borne  to  her  grave. 

Eight  years,  continued  he,  after  a pause  of  some  minutes,  have 
elapsed  since  her  death,  yet  is  her  worth,  her  beauty,  and  her  suffer- 
ings still  fresh  in  the  remembrance  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  hamlet. 
In  mine,  oh ! Miss  Eitzalan,  how  painfully,  how  pleasingly,  do  they 
etill  exist ; no  noisome  weed  is  allowed  to  intermingle  in  the  high 
grass  which  has  overgrown  her  grave,  at  the  head  of  which  some 
kind  hand  has  planted  a rose  tree,  whose  roses  blossom,  bloom,  and 
die  upon  the  sacred  spot.  My  child  is  gone  before  me  to  that  earthly 
bed,  to  which  I hoped  she  would  have  smoothed  my  passage.  Every 
spot  in  and  about  the  cottage,  continually  recalls  her  to  my  view : 
the  ornaments  of  this  little  room,  were  all  the  work  of  that  hand, 
long  since  mouldered  into  dust : in  that  bed — ^he  stopped,  he  groaned, 
and  tears  burst  from  him — ^in  that  bed,  resumed  he,  (in  a lew 
minutes,  though  with  a broken  voice)  she  breathed  her  last  sigh ; in 
that  spot  I knelt  and  received  the  last  pressure  of  her  clay  cold  lips. 
Of  a calm  night  when  all  is  hushed  do  repose,  I love  to  contemplate 
that  heaven,  to  which  I have  given  an  angel : an  angel  to  whom,  I 
hope,  shortly  to  be  re-united:  without  such  a hope,  surely  of  all  men 
wreathing,  I should  be  the  most  wretched:  oh,  how  enud  is  it  then 


I 


S20 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


!n  those  who,  by  raising  doubts  of  an  hereafter,  attempt  to  destroy 
such  a hoi^e.  Ye  sons  of  error,  hide  the  impiou'j  doubts  within  youc 
hearts,  nor  with  wanton  barbarity  endeavour  to  deprive  the  miserable 
of  their  last  comfort : when  this  world  presents  nothing  but  a dreary 
prospect,  how  cheering  to  the  afflicted  to  ledect  on  that  future  one, 
where  all  will  be  bright  and  happy. — When  we  mourn  over  the  lost 
fiiends  of  our  tenderest  affections,  oh  I hovi^  consolatory  to  think  we 
shall  be  re-united  to  them  again ; how  often  has  this  thought 
suspended  my  tears  and  stopped  my  sighs;  inspired  by  it  with 
sudden  joy,  often  have  I risen  from  the  cold  bed  where  Juliana  lies, 
and  exclaimed,  “0  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  0 grave,  where  is  thy 
victory?”  both  lost  in  the  certainty  of  again  beholding  my  child. 

Amanda  shed  tears  of  soft  compassion  for  the  fate  of  Juliana,  and 
the  sorrows  of  her  father,  and  felt  if  possible,  her  gratitude  to  heaven 
increased,  for  preserving  her  from  the  snares  of  such  a monster  of 
deceit  and  barbarity  as  Belgrave. 

Howell  relieved  the  anxiety  she  laboured  under  about  the  means  of 
returning  home,  by  assuring  her  he  would  not  only  supply  her  with  a 
sum  sufficient  for  that  purpose,  but  see  her  to  Park  Gate  himself. 

His  name  struck  Amanda : it  recalled  to  remembrance  her  Welch 
friend.  She  inquired,  and  heard,  that  the  young  and  tender  curate 
was  indeed  the  son  of  her  benefactor.  The  softness  of  Henry’s  dis- 
position,” said  his  father,  ‘‘  particularly  qualifies  him  for  the  sacred 
function,  which  prevents  his  having  occasion  to  mingle  in  the  con- 
cerns of  the  great  world.  He  writes  me  word,  that  he  is  the  simple 
shepherd  of  a simple  flock.” 

One  day  was  all  Amanda  would  devote  to  the  purpose  of  recruiting 
her  strength;  nothing  could  prevail  on  her  longer  to  defer  her  jour- 
ney. A chaise  was  accordingly  procured,  into  which,  at  the  first 
dawn  of  day,  she  and  Howell  stept,  followed  by  the  blessing  of  tlie 
affectionate  Eleanor,  who  from  her  own  wardrobe,  had  supplied 
Amanda  with  a few  necessaries,  to  take  along  with  her.  The  church 
yard  lay  about  a quarter  of  a m ^ from  the  hamlet : it  was  only 
divided  from  the  road  by  a low  ana  roken  wall.  Old  trees  shaded 
the  grass-grown  grave,  and  gave  a kl  i of  solemn  gloominess  to  the 
place. 

See,”  said  Howell,  suddenly  takii  g Amanda’s  hand,  ard  ietting 
down  the  glass,  ‘‘  See  the  bed  where  Juliana  reposes.” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET.  3‘U 

Tlie  grave  was  distinguished  by  the  rose  tree  at  its  head : the 
morning  breeze  gently  agitated  the  higTi  and  luxuriant  grass  which 
covered  it.  Amanda  gazed  on  it  with  inexpressible  sadness,  but  the 
emotions  it  excited  in  her  breast,  she  endeavoured  to  check  in  pity 
to  the  wretched  father,  who  exclaimed,  while  tears  trickled  down  his 
pale  and  furrowed  cheeks,  “ there  lies  my  treasure.” 

She  tried  to  divert  him  from  his  sorrow,  by  talking  ot  his  son. 
She  described  his  little  residence,  which  he  had  never  seen  : thus,  by 
recalling  to  his  recollection  the  blessings  he  yet  possessed,  checking 
his  anguish  for  those  he  had  lost. 

The  weakness  of  Amanda  would  not  allow  them  to  travel  expedi- 
tiously. They  slept  one  night  on  the  road,  and  the  next  day,  to  her 
great  joy,  arrived  at  Park  Gate,  as  she  had  all  along  dreaded  a pur- 
suit from  Belgrave.  A packet  was  to  sail  about  four  o’clock  in  the 
afternoon ; she  partook  of  a slight  repast  with  her  benevolent  friend, 
who  attended  her  to  the  boat,  and  with  starting  tears,  gave  and 
received  an  adieu.  She  promised  to  write  as  soon  as  she  reached 
home,  and  assured  him  his  kindness  would  never  be  obliterated  from 
her  heart.  He  watched  her  till  she  entered  the  ship,  then  returned 
to  the  inn,  and  immediately  set  off  for  the  hamlet,  with  a mind  some- 
what cheered  by  the  consciousness  of  having  served  a felh'^w  crea- 
ture. 


OHAPTEK  XXXII. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense  breathing  morn ; 

The  swallow  twit’ring  from  its  straw  built  shetJ . 

The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  him  from  his  lowly  led. 

Gray. 

The  weakness  which  Amanda  felt  in  consequence  of  her  late  illness, 
find  the  excessive  sickness  she  always  suffered  at  sea,  made  her  retire 
to  bed  immediately  on  entering  the  packet,  where  she  continued  till 
the  evening  of  the  second  day,  when  about  five  o’clock  she  was 
landed  at  the  marine  hotel.  She  directly  requested  the  waiter  to 
procure  her  a messenger  to  go  into  town,  which  being  done  she  sent 

14* 


522 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


to  engage  a place  in  the  northern  mail  coach,  that  went  within  a few 
miles  of  Castle  Carherry.  If  a place  could  not  he  procured,  she 
ordered  a chaise  might  be  hired,  that  would  immediately  set  out  with 
her,  as  the  nights  were  moon-light,  but  to  her  great  joy  the  man 
speedily  returned,  and  informed  her  he  had  secured  a seat  in  the 
coach,  which  she  thought  a much  safer  mode  of  travelling  for  her, 
than  in  a hired  carriage,  without  any  attendant'. — She  took  some 
slight  refreshment,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  mail  hotel,  from  whence, 
at  eleven  o’ckek,  she  set  out,  in  company  wdth  one  old  gentleman, 
who  very  composedly  put  on  a large  woolen  night  cap,  buttoned  up 
his  great  coat,  and  fell  into  a profound  sleep ; he  was,  perhaps,  just 
such  a hind  of  companion  as  Amanda  desired,  as  he  neither  teazed 
her  with  insipid  conversation,  or  impertinent  questions,  but  left  her 
undisturbed  to  indulge  her  meditations  during  the  journey.  The 
S6cx)ni  evening,  about  eight  o’clock,  she  arrived  at  the  nearest  town 
to  Cast:<^  Carherry,  for  which  she  directly  procured  a chaise,  and  set 
off. 

Her  spirits  were  painfully  agitated:  she  dreaded  the  shock  her 
father  would  receive  from  hearing  of  her  sufferings,  which  it  would 
be  impossible  to  conceal  from  him ; she  trembled  at  what  they  would 
both  ieel  on  the  approaching  interview : sometimes  she  feared  he  had 
already  xieard  of  her  distress,  and  a gloomy  presage  rose  in  her  mind, 
of  the  anguish  she  should  find  him  in  on  her  account:  yet  again, 
when  she  reflected  on  the  fortitude  he  had  hitherto  displayed  in  his 
trials,  under  the  present,  she  trusted,  he  would  not  lose  it ; and  that 
he  would  not  only  support  himself,  but  her,  and  bind  up  those 
wounds  in  her  heart,  which  perfidy,  cruelty,  and  ingratitude  had 
made.  And  oh ! thought  she  to  herself,  when  I find  myself  again  in 
his  arms,  no  temptation  shall  allure  m^  fi’om  them ; allure  me  into  a 
world,  where  my  peace  and  fame  have  already  suffered  such  a wreck. 
Thus  alternately  fluctuating  between  hope  and  fear,  Amanda  pursued 
the  road  to  Castle  Carherry ; but  the  latter  sensation  was  predominant 
in  her  mind. 

The  uncommon  gloominess  of  the  evening  added  to  her  dejection^, 
the  dark  and  lowering  clouds  threatened  a violent  storm ; already  a 
ahower  of  sleet  and  rain  was  falling,  and  every  thing  looked  cold  and 
cheerless.  Amanda  thought  the  cabins  infinitely  more  wi  etched  than 
when  she  had  first  seen  them : many  of  their  miserable  inhabitanta 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  923 

were  now  gathering  their  little  flocks  together,  and  driving  them 
under  shelter  from  the  coming  storm.  The  labourers  were  seen  has- 
tening to  their  respective  homes,  whilst  the  plough-boy,  with  a low 
and  pielancholy  whistle,  drove  his  slow  and  wearied  team  along. 
The  sea  looked  rough  and  black,  and  as  Amanda  drew  nearer  to  it. 
she  heard  it  breaking  with  fury  against  the  rocks. 

She  felt  herself  extremely  ill : she  had  left  the  hamlet  ere  her  fever 
was  subdued,  and  fatigue,  joined  to  want  of  rest,  now  brought  it 
back  with  all  its  former  violence.  She  longed  for  rest  and  quiet,  and 
trusted  and  believed  these  would  conquer  her  malady. 

The  chaise  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  lawn,  as  she  wished  to 
have  her  father  prepared  for  her  arrival,  by  one  of  the  servants.  On 
alighting  from  it,  it  returned  to  town,  and  she  struck  into  a grove, 
and  by  a winding  path  reached  the  castle.  Her  limbs  trembled,  and 
she  knocked  with  an  unsteady  hand  at  the  door.  The  sound  was 
awfully  reverberated  through  the  building:  some  minutes  elapsed, 
and  no  being  appeared;  neither  could  she  perceive  a ray  of  light 
from  any  of  the  windows ; the  wind  blew  the  rain  directly  in  her 
face,  and  her  weakness  increased  so  she  could  scarcely  stand.  She 
recollected  a small  door  at  the  back  of  the  castle,  which  led  to  the 
apartments  appropriated  to  the  domestics  ; she  walked  feebly  to  this, 
to  try  and  gain  admittance,  and  found  it  open.  She  proceeded 
through  a long,  dark  passage,  on  each  side  of  which  were  small 
rooms,  till  ghe  came  to  the  kitchen ; here  she  found  the  old  woman 
sitting  (to  whom  the  care  of  the  castle  was  usually  consigned),  before 
a large  turf  Are.  On  hearing  a footstep,  she  looked  behind,  and  when 
she  saw  Amanda,  started,  screamed,  and  betrayed  symptoms  of  the 
utmost  terror. 

“ Are  you  frightened  at  seeing  me,  my  good  Kate  ?”  cried  Amanda. 

“ Oh  holy  virgin,”  replied  Kate,  crossing  her  breast,  one  could 
not  help  being  frightened,  to  have  a body  steal  unawares  upon  them.” 

My  father  is  well,  I hope  ?”  said  Amanda. 

“ Alack-a-day,”  cried  Kate,  “ the  poor  dear  captain  has  gone 
through  a sea  of  troubles  since  yon  went  away.” 

“ Is  he  ill  ?”  exclaimed  Amanda. 

“ m,  ay,  and  the  Lord  knows  he  has  reason  enougli  to  be  ill.  But 
my  dear  jewel,  do  you  know  nothing  at  all  of  what  lias  happened  at 
the  castle  since  you  went  away  ?” 


324 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


Ko,  nothing  in  the  world.’’ 

“ Heas^en  help  you  then,”  said  Kate ; “ hut  my  dear  soul,  sit  down 
upon  this  little  stool,  and  warm  yourself  before  the  fire,  for  you  look 
pale  and  cold,  and  I will  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  must  know, 
about  three  weeks  ago  my  Jolmaten  brought  the  captain  a letter  from 
the  post-ofSce ; he  knew  by  the  mark  it  was  a letter  from  England ; 
and  so  when  he  comes  into  the  kitchen  to  me,  Kate,  says  he,  tlie 
captain  has  got  something  now  to  cheer  his  spirits,  for  he  has  heard 
from  Miss  I am  sure.  So  to  be  sure  I said  I was  glad  of  it,  for  you 
must  know,  my  dear,  he  was  in  low  spirits,  and  peaking,  as  one  may 
say,  for  a few  days  before.  "Well,  it  was  always  my  custom  when  he 
got  a letter  from  England,  to  go  to  him  as  soon  as  I thought  he  had 
read  it,  and  ask  about  you  ; so  I put  on  a clean  apron,  and  up  T goes 
to  the  parlour,  and  opened  the  door  and  walked  in.  ‘Well  sir,’  says 
T,  ‘ I hope  there  is  good  news  from  Miss  V 

“ The  captain  was  sitting  with  the  letter  open  before  him  on  the 
table ; he  had  a handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  but  when  I spoke  he  took 
it  down,  and  I saw  his  face,  which  generally  looked  so  pale,  now 
quite  flushed. 

“ ‘ This  letter,  my  good  Kate,’  says  he,  ‘ is  not  from  my  daughter, 
but  I am  glad  you  are  come,  for  I wanted  to  speak  to  you.  I am. 
going  to  leave  the  castle,  and  I want  you  to  look  over  all  the  things, 
and  see  they  are  in  the  same  state  as  when  I came  to  it ; I shall  then 
settle  with  the  servants  I hired,  and  discharge  them.’ 

“ I was  struck  all  of  a heap : ‘ The  Lord  forbid  you  should  be 
going  to  leave  us,  sir,’  says  I. 

“ The  captain  got  up  : he  walked  to  the  window  ; he  sighed 
heavily,  and  I saw  a tear  upon  his  cheek.  He  spoke  to  me  again, 
and  begged  I would  do  as  he  had  desired  me ; so  with  a heavy  heart 
I went  and  told  Johnaten  the  sad  tidings,  who  was  as  sorry  as  myself, 
for  he  loved  the  captain  dearly,  not  only  from  his  being  so  mild  a 
gentleman,  but  because  he  was  a soldier,  as  he  himself  had  been  in 
his  youth,  and  a soldier  has  always  a love  for  one  of  his  cloth  ; and 
Johnaten  had  often  said  he  knew  the  captain  in  America,  and  that  he 
was  a brave  officer  and  a real  gentleman. 

“Well  the  captain  came  out  to  us,  and  said  he  was  to  be  Lord 
Cherbury’s  agent  no  longer ; and,  being  a good  penman,  he  settled 
all  his  own  accounts,  and  his  servants’,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDET. 


825 


disfiharged  tliem,  giving  them  both  characters,  whicli  I warrant  will 
Bocn  get  them  good  places  again.  Well,  he  said  he  must  set  off  for 
England  the  next  day,  so  every  thing  was  got  ready;  hut  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  he  was  seized  with  spasms  in  his  stomach ; he 
thought  himself  dying,  and  at  last  rung  the  hell,  and  as  good  luck 
would  have  it,  my  Johnaten  heard  it,  and  went  up  to  him  directly ; 
Lad  he  been  without  relief  much  longer,  I think  he  would  have  died. 
Johnaten  called  me  up  ; I had  a choice  bottle  of  old  brandy  lying  by 
me,  so  I soon  blew  up  a fire,  and  heating  a cup  of  it,  gave  it  to  him 
directly.  He  grew  a little  easier,  but  was  too  bad  in  the  morning  to 
think  of  going  on  his  journey,  which  grieved  him  sadly.  He  got  up, 
however,  and  wrote  a large  pacquet,  which  he  sent  by  Johnaten  to 
the  post-office ; packed  up  some  things  in  a trunk  and  put  his  seal 
upon  his  desk ; he  said  he  would  not  stay  in  the  castle  upon  any 
account,  so  he  went  out  as  soon  as  Johnaten  came  back  from  the  post- 
. rffice,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  and  got  a little  lodging  at  Thady  Bryne’s 
taoin.” 

“Merciful  heaven!”  exclaimed  the  agonized  and  almost  fainting 
Amanda,  “ support  and  strengthen  me  in  this  trying  hour  I enable  me 
to  comfort  my  unfortunate  father ; preserve  me  from  sinking,  that  I 
may  endeavour  to  assist  him.”  Tears  accompanied  this  fervent  ejacu- 
tion,  and  her  voice  was  lost  in  sobs. 

“ Alack-a-day,”  said  the  good  natured  Kate,  “ now  don’t  take  it  so 
sadly  to  heart,  my  jewel;  all  is  not  lost  that  is  in  danger,  and  there 
is  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught ; and  what  though  this 
is  a stormy  night,  to-morrow  may  be  a fine  day.  Why  the  very  first 
sight  of  you  will  do  the  captain  good.  Come  cheer  up,  I will  give 
you  some  nice  hot  potatoes  for  your  supper,  for  you  see  the  pot  is  just 
boiling,  and  some  fresh  churned  butter-milk,  and  by  the  time  you 
have  eaten  it,  Johnaten  perhaps  may  come  back;  he  has  gone  to 
town  to  get  some  beef  for  our  Sunday  dinner,  and  then  I will  go  with 
you  to  Thady’s  myself.” 

“ Ho,  no,”  cried  Amanda,  “ every  minute  I now  stay  from  my 
fiither  seems  an  age:  too  long  has  he  been  neglected:  too  long 
without  a friend  to  sooth  or  attend  him.  Oh  grant,  gracious  heaven, 
grant,”  raising  her  clasped  hands,  “ that  I may  hot  have  returned  too 
late  to  be  of  use  to  him.” 

Kate  prest  her  to  stay  for  Johnaten’s  return;  but  the  agony  of 


328 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


suspense  she  endured  till  she  saw  her  father,  made  her  re;?ardlesa  of 
waiting  alone,  though  the  hour  was  late,  dark  and  tenipescu«_*a8. 
Kate  finding  her  entreaties  vain,  attended  her  to  the  door,  assuring 
her  if  Johnaten  returned  soon,  she  would  go  over  herself  to  the  cabin, 
and  see  if  she  could  do  anything  for  her.  Amanda  prest  her  hand, 
but  was  unable  to  speak.  Ill,  weak,  and  dispirited,  she  had  flattered 
herself,  on  returning  to  her  father,  she  should  receive  relief,  support, 
and  consolation : instead  of  which,  heart-broken  as  she  was,  she  now 
found  she  must  give,  or  at  least  attempt  giving  them  herseK.  Sho 
had  before  experienced  distress,  but  the  actual  pressure  of  poverty 
she  had  never  yet  felt.  Heretofore  she  had  always  a comfortable 
asylum  to  repair  to,  but  now  she  not  only  found  herself  deprived  of 
that,  but  of  aU  means  of  procuring  one,  or  even  the  necessaries  of  life. 

But  if  slie  mourned  for  herself,  how  much  more  severely  did  she 
mourn  for  her  adored  father ! Could  she  have  procured  him  comfort ; 
could  she  in  any  degree  have  alleviated  his  situation,  the  horrors  of  ' 
her  own  would  have  been  lessened:  but  of  this  she  had  not  the 
slightest  means  or  prospect.  Her  father,  she  knew,  possessed  the 
agency  too  short  a time,  to  be  enabled  to  save  any  money,  particularly 
as  he  was  indebted  to  Lord  Oherbury  ere  he  obtained  it ; she  knew 
of  no  being  to  whom  she  could  apply  in  his  behalf.  Lord  Cherbury 
was  the  only  person  on  whom  he  depended  in  his  former  misfortune 
for  relief;  his  friendship,  it  was  evident,  by  depriving  her  father  of 
the  agency,  was  totally  lost ; and  to  the  disconsolate  Amanda,  no  way 
appeared  of  escaping  “want,  wordly  want,  that  hungry,  meagre 
fiend,”  who  was  akeady  close  at  their  heels,  and  followed  them  in 
view. 

•The  violence  of  the  storm  had  increased,  but  it  was  slight  in 
comparison  of  that  which  agitated  the  bosom  of  Amanda.  The 
waves  dashed  with  a dreadful  noise  against  the  rocks;  and  the  angry 
spirit  of  the  waters  roared ; the  rain  fell  heavily,  and  soon  soaked 
through  the  thin  clothing  of  Amanda.  She  had  about  half  a mile  to 
walk  through  a rugged  road,  bounded  on  one  side  by  rocks,  and  on 
the  other  by  wild  and  dreary  fields.  She  knew  the  people  with 
whom  her  father  lodged ; they  were  of  the  lowest  order,  and  on  her 
first  arriving  at  Castle  Carberry,  in  extreme  distress,  from  which  she 
had  relieved  them.  Slie  recollected  their  cabin  was  more  decent  than 
many  others  she  had  seen,  yet  still  a most  miserable  dwelling. 


CIIILDRHN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


327 


Wretcih^.d  as  it  was,  she  was  glad  when  she  reached  it,  for  the  violence 
of  tie  ctorm,  ard  the  loneliness  of  the  road,  had  terrified  her.  The 
cabin  was  but  a few  yards  from  the  beach  : there  were  two  windows 
in  front ; on  one  side  a pile  of  turf,  and  on  the  other  a shed  for  the 
pigs,  in  which  they  now  lay  grunting : the  shutters  were  fastened  on 
tie  windows  to  prevent  their  being  shaken  by  the  wind;  but  through 
the  crevices  Amanda  saw  light,  wliich  convinced  her  the  inhabitants 
were  not  yet  retired  to  repose.  She  feared  her  suddenly  appearing 
before  her  father,  in  his  present  weak  state,  might  have  a dangerous 
efifect  upon  him,  and  she  stood  before  the  cabin,  considering  how  she 
ehculd  have  her  arrival  broke  to  him.  She  at  last  tapped  gently  at 
the  door,  and  tlien  retreated  a few  steps  from  it,  shivering  with  the 
wet  and  cold : in  the  beautiful  language  of  Solomon  she  might  have 
said,  “ her  head  was  filled  with  dew,  and  her  locks  with  the  drops  of 
the  night.”  As  she  expected,  the  door  was  almost  instantly  opened ; 
a boy  appeared,  whom  she  knew  to  be  son  to  the  poor  people.  She 
held  up  her  handkerchief,  and  beckoned  him  to  her ; he  hesitated  as  if 
afraid  to  advance,  till  ^ihe  called  him  softly  by  his  name ; this  assured 
him ; he  approached  and  expressed  astonishment  at  finding  she  was 
the  person  who  called  him.  She  inquired  for  her  father,  and  heard 
he  was  ill,  and  then  asleep.  She  desired  the  boy  to  enter  the  cabin 
before  her,  and  caution  his  parents  against  making  any  noise  that 
might  disturb  him;  he  obeyed  her,  and  she  followed  him. 

She  tound  the  father  of  the  family  blowing  a turf  fire,  to  hasten 
the  boiling  of  a large  pot  of  potatoes.  Three  ragged  children  were 
sitting  before  it,  watching  impatiently  for  their  supper.  The  mother 
was  spinning,  and  their  old  grandmother  making  bread.  The  place 
was  small  and  crowded : half  the  family  slept  below,  and  the  other 
half  up  aloft,  to  which  they  ascended  by  a ladder,  and  upon  which  a 
number  of  fowls  were  now  familiarly  roosting,  cackling  at  evejy 
noise  made  below.  Fitzalan’s  room  was  divided  from  the  rest  of  the 
cabin  by  a thin  partition  of  wood,  plastered  with  pictures  of  saints 
and  crosses. 

“ Save  you  kindly,  madam,”  said  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  to 
Amanda,  on  entering  it. 

Bryne  got  up,  and  with  many  scrapes,  ofifered  her  his  little  stooj 
before  the  fire.  She  thanked  him,  and  accepted  it ; his  wife,  not- 
withstanding the  obligations  she  lay  under  to  her,  seemed  to  think  as 


328 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


much  respect  was  not  due  to  her  as  when  mistress  of  the  castle,  and 
therefore  never  left  her  seat,  or  quitted  her  spinning,  on  her  entrance. 

My  poor  father  is  very  ill,”  said  Amanda. 

“Why,  indeed  the  captain  has  had  a had  time  of  it,”  answered 
Mrs.  Bryne,  jogging  her  wheel;  “ to  be  sure  he  has  suffered  some  lit 
tie  change ; hut  your  great  folks,  as  well  as  your  simple  folks,  mu&t 
look  to  that  in  this  world;  and  I don’t  know  why  they  should 
for  they  are  no  better  than  the  others,  I believe.” 

“Arra,  Norah,  now,”  said  Bryne,  “I  wonder  you  are  not  shy  cf 
speaking  so  to  the  poor  young  lady.” 

Amanda’s  heart  was  surcharged  with  grief ; she  felt  suffocating ; 
she  arose,  unlatched  the  door,  and  the  keen  cold  air  a little  revived  her. 
Tears  burst  forth : she  indulged  them  freely,  and  they  lightened  th  3 
load  on  her  heart.  She  asked  for  a glass  of  water : a glass  was  not 
readily  to  be  procured.  Bryne  told  her  she  had  better  take  a noggin 
of  butter-milk.  This  she  refused,  and  he  brought  her  one  of 
water. 

She  now  conquered  the  reluctance  she  felt  to  speak  to  the  uncouth 
Mrs.  Bryne,  and  consulted  her  on  the  best  method  of  mentioning  her 
arrival  to  her  father.  Mrs.  Bryne  said  he  had  been  in  bed  sometime, 
but  his  sleep  was  often  interrupted,  and  she  would  now  step  into  his 
chamber,  and  try  if  he  was  awake;  she  accordingly  did  so,  but 
returned  in  a moment,  and  said  he  still  slept. 

Amanda  wished  to  see  him  in  his  present  situation,  to  judge  how 
far  his  illness  had  affected  him ; she  stepped  softly  into  his  room : it 
was  small  and  low,  lighted  by  a glimmering  rush-light,  and  a declin- 
ing fire.  The  furniture  was  poor  and  scanty , in  one  corner  stood  a 
wooden  bedstead,  without  curtains  or  any  shade,  and  on  this,  under 
miserable  bed-clothes,  lay  poor  Fitzalan. 

Amanda  shuddered  as  she  looked  round  this  chamber  of  wietched- 
ness.  “ Oh,  my  father,”  she  cried  to  herself,  “ is  this  the  only  refuge 
you  could  find?”  She  went  to  the  bed,  she  leaned  over  it,  and 
beheld  iiis  face ; it  was  deadly  pale  and  emaciated ; he  moaned  in  his 
sleep,  as  if  his  mind  was  dreadfully  oppressed.  Suddenly  he  began  to 
move;  he  sighed — “Amanda,  my  dearest  child,  shall  I never  more 
behold  you  ?” 

Amanda  was  obliged  to  hasten  from  the  room,  to  give  vent  to  her 
emotions  ; she  sobbed,  she  wrung  her  hands,  and  in  tl^e  bitterness  of 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


329 


lier  soul  exclaimed,  Alas  I alas  I I have  returned  too  late  U/  save 
him.” 

They  soon  after  heard  him  stir.  She  requested  Mrs.  Bryne  to  go 
in,  and  cautiously  inform  him  she  was  come.  She  complied,  and  in 
a moment  Amanda  heard  him  say,  “ Thank  heaven,  my  darling  is 
returned.” 

‘^You  may  now  go  in.  Miss,”  said  Mrs.  Bryne,  coming  from  the 
room. 

Amanda  went  in : her  father  was  raised  in  the  bed ; his  arms  wer© 
extended  to  receive  her ; she  threw  herself  into  them ; language  was 
denied  them  both,  but  tears,  even  more  expressive  than  words, 
evinced  their  feelings.  Fitzalan  first  recovered  his  voice.  “My 
prayer,”  said  he,  is  granted;  heaven  has  restored  my  child,  to 
smooth  the  pillow  of  sickness,  and  sooth  the  last  moments  of  exist- 
ence.” 

“ Oh,  my  father,”  cried  Amanda,  “ have  pity  on  me,  and  mention 
not  those  moments ; exert  yourself  for  your  child,  who,  in  this  wido 
world,  has  she  but  thee  to  comfort,  support,  and  befriend  her  ?” 

“ Indeed,”  said  he,  “ for  your  sake  I wish  they  may  be  far  distant.” 

He  held  her  at  a little  distance  from  him ; he  surveyed  her  face, 
her  form;  her  altered  complexion,  her  fallen  features,  appeared  to 
shock  him;  he  clasped  her  again  to  his  bosom.  “The  world,  my 
child,  I fear,”  cried  he,  “has  used  thee  most  unkindly.” 

“ Oh ! most  cruelly,”  sobbed  Amanda. 

“Then,  my  girl,  let  the  reflection  of  that  world,  where  innocence 
and  virtue  will  meet  a proper  reward,  console  you : — here  they  are 
often  permitted  to  be  tried ; but  as  gold  is  tried  and  purified  by  fire, 
so  are  they  by  adversity.  Those  whom  God  loves  he  chastises. — Let 
this  idea  give  you  patience  and  fortitude,  under  every  trial ; never 
forego  your  dependence  on  him,  though  calamity  should  pursue  you 
to  the  very  brink  of  the  grave ; but  be  comforted  by  the  assurance  he 
has  given,  that  those  who  meekly  bear  the  cross  he  lays  upon  them 
shall  be  rewarded : that  he  will  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes, 
and  swallow  up  death  in  victory. 

“Though  a soldier  from  my  youth,  and  accustomed  to  all  the  licen- 
tiousness of  camps,  I never  forgot  my  Creator,  and  I now  find  the 
benefit  of  not  having  done  so:  now,  when  my  friends  desert,  the 
world  frowns  upon  me ; when  sickness  and  sorrow  have  overwhelmed 


3S0 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


me,  religion  stands  me  in  good  stead ; consoles  me  for  wbat  I lost,  and 
«5oftens  the  remembrance  of  the  past,  hy  presenting  prospects  of  future 
brightness.” 

So  spoke  Fitzalan  the  pious  sentiments  of  his  soul,  and  they  calmed 
the  agitations  of  Amanda.  He  found  her  clothes  were  wet,  and 
insisted  on  her  changing  them  directly.  In  the  bundle  tnc  good 
Eleanor  gave  her,  was  a change  of  linen  and  a cotton  wrapper,  which 
Bhe  now  put  on,  in  a small  closet,  or  rather  shed,  adjoining  her  father’s 
room.  A good  fire  was  made  up,  a better  light  brought  in,  and  some 
bread  and  wine  from  a small  cupboard  in  the  room  which  contained 
Eitzalan’s  things,  set  before  her,  of  which  he  made  her  immediately 
partake.  He  took  a glass  of  wine  himself  from  her,  and  tried  to  cheer 
her  spirits.  “ He  had  been  daily  expecting  her  arrival,”  he  said,  “ and 
had  had  a pallet  and  bed  clothes  kept  airing  for  her ; he  hoped  she 
would  not  be  dissatisfied  with  sleeping  in  tlie  closet. 

‘‘  Ah ! my  father,”  she  cried,  “ can  you  ask  your  daughter  such  a 
question  ?”  She  expressed  her  fears  of  injuring  him  by  having  dis- 
turbed his  repose.  “ Ho,”  he  said,  “ it  was  a delightful  interruption ; 
it  was  a relief  from  pain  and  anxiety.” 

Lord  Cherbury,  he  informed  her,  had  written  him  a letter,  which 
pierced  him  to  the  soul.  “ He  accused  me,”  said  he,  “ of  endeavour- 
ing to  promote  a marriage  between  you  and  Lord  Mortimer;  of 
treacherously  trying  to  counteract  his  views,  and  take  advantage  of 
his  unsuspecting  friendship.  I was  shocked  at  these  accusations; 
but  how  excruciating  would  my  anguish  have  been,  had  I really 
deserved  them ; I soon  determined  upon  the  conduct  I should  adopt, 
which  was  to  deny  the  justice  of  his  charges  and  resign  his  agency, 
for  any  farther  dealings  with  a man,  who  could  think  me  capable  of 
meanness  or  duplicity,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  My  accounts  were 
always  in  a state  to  allow  me  to  resign  at  a moment’s  warning.  It 
was  my  intention  to  go  to  England,  put  them  into  Lord  Cherbury’s 
hands,  and  take  my  Amanda  from  a place  where  she  might  meet 
with  indignities,  as  little  merited  by  her,  as  those  her  father  had 
received  were  by  him.  A sudden  and  dreadful  disorder,  which  I am 
convinced  the  agitation  of  my  mind  brought  on,  prevented  my 
executing  this  intention.  I wrote,  however,  to  his  lordship,  acquaint- 
ing him  with  my  resignation  of  his  agency,  and  transmittirg  my 
accounts  and  arrears.  I sent  a letter  to  you  at  the  same  time,  and  & 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


831 


§mall  remittance,  for  your  immediate  return,  and  tlien  retired  from 
the  castlo,  for  I felt  a longer  continuanoe  in  it  would  degrade  me  to 
the  character  of  a mean  dependant,  and  intimated  a hope  of  being 
reinstated  in  my  former  station ; which,  should  Lord  Cherbury  now 
offer.  I should  reject,  for  ignoble  must  be  the  mind  which  could 
accept  of  favours  from  those  who  doubted  its  integrity.  Against 
such  conduct  my  feelings  revolt ; poverty  to  me,  is  more  welcome 
than  independence,  when  purchased  with  the  loss  of  self-esteem.” 

Amanda  perceived  her  father  knew  nothing  of  her  sufferings,  but 
supposed  her  return  occasioned  by  his  letter ; she  therefore  resolved, 
if  possible,  not  to  undeceive  him,  at  least  till  his  health  was  better. 

The  night  was  far  advanced,  and  her  father  who  saw  hox  ill,  and 
almost  sinking  with  fatigue,  requested  her  to  retire  to  rest;  she 
accordingly  did.  Her  bed  was  made  up  in  the  little  closet;  Mrs. 
Bryne  assisted  her  to  undress,  and  brought  her  a bowl  of  whey, 
which,  she  trusted,  with  a comfortable  sleep,  would  carry  off  her 
feverish  symptoms,  and  enable  her  to  be  her  father’s  nurse. 

Her  rest,  however,  was  far  from  being  comfortable ; it  was  broken 
by  horrid  dreams,  in  which  she  beheld  the  pale  and  emaciated  figure 
of  her  father,  suffering  the  most  exquisite  tortures ; and  when  she 
started  from  these  dreams,  she  heard  his  deep  moans,  which  were 
like  daggers  going  through  her  heart.  She  arose  once  or  twice,  sup- 
posing him  in  pain,  but  when  she  went  to  his  bed  she  found  him 
asleep,  and  was  convinced  from  that  circumstance,  his  pain  was 
more  of  the  mental  than  the  bodily  kind.  She  felt  extremely  ill ; her 
bones  were  sore  from  the  violent  motion  of  the  carriage,  and  she  fan- 
cied rest  would  do  her  good ; but  when,  towards  morning,  she  was 
inclined  to  take  some,  she  was  completely  prevented  by  the  noise  the 
children  made  on  rising.  Fearful  of  neglecting  her  father,  she  arose 
soon  after  herself,  but  was  scarcely  able  to  put  on  her  clothes  from 
excessive  weakness.  She  found  him  in  bed,  but  awake.  He  wel- 
comed her  with  a languid  smile,  and  extending  his  hand,  which  was 
reduced  to  mere. skin  and  bone,  said,  “that  joy  was  a greater  enemy 
to  repose  than  grief,  and  had  broken  his  earlier  than  usual  that 
morning.” 

He  made  her  sit  down  by  him ; he  gazed  on  her  with  unutterable 
tenderness : “ In  divine  language,”  cried  he,  “ I may  say,  let  me  see 
tiiy  countenance ; let  me  hear  thy  voice ; for  sweet  is  thy  voice,  and 


332 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


tliy  countenance  is  comely,  and  my  soul  has  pleasure  in  gazing 
on  it*” 

The  kettle  was  already  boiling : he  had  procured  a few  necessaries 
for  himself,  such  as  tea-things  and  glasses.  Amanda  placed  the  tea- 
table  by  the  bedside,  and  gave  him  his  breakfast.  Whilst  receiving 
it  from  her,  his  eyes  were  raised  to  heaven,  as  if  in  thankful  gratitude 
for  the  inestimable  blessing  he  still  possessed  in  such  a child.  After 
breakfast  he  said  he  would  rise,  and  Amanda  retired  into  the  garden 
till  he  was  dressed,  if  that  could  deserve  the  appellation,  which  was 
only  a slip  of  ground,  planted  with  cabbages  and  potatoes,  and 
enclosed  with  loose  stones  and  blackberry  bushes.  The  spring  was 
already  advanced:  the  day  was  fine;  the  light  and  fleecy  clouds  were 
gradually  dispersing,  and  the  sky,  almost  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  was  of  a clear  blue.  The  dusky  green  of  the  blackberry 
bushes  was  enlivened  by  the  pale  purple  of  their  blossoms  ; tufts  of 
primroses  grew  beneath  their  shelter ; the  fields,  which  rose  with  a 
gentle  swell  above  the  garden,  were  covered  with  a vivid  green, 
spangled  with  daisies,  buttercups,  and  wild  honey-suckles ; and  the 
birds,  as  they  fluttered  from  spray  to  spray,  with  notes  of  gladness, 
hailed  the  genial  season. 

But  neither  the  season  nor  its  charms  could  now,  as  heretofoie, 
delight  Amanda ; she  felt  forlorn  and  disconsolate;  deprived  of  the 
comforts  of  life,  and  no  longer  interested  in  the  objects  around  her, 
she  sat  down  upon  a stone  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  and  sha  thought 
the  fresh  breeze  from  the  sea  cooled  the  feverish  heat  of  her  blood. 
“Alas!”  she  said  to  herself,  “at  this  season  last  year,  how  diflferent 
was  my  situation  from  the  present!”  Though  not  in  affluence, 
neither  was  she  then  in  absolute  distress ; and  she  had,  besides,  the 
comfortable  hope  of  having  her  father’s  difficulties  removed;  like 
Burns’  mountain  daisy,  she  had  then  cheerfully  glinted  forth  amidst 
the  storm,  because  she  thought  that  storm  would  be  o’erblown ; but 
now  she  saw  herself  on  the  point  of  being  finally  crushed  beneath  the 
rude  pressure  of  poverty. 

She  recollected  the  words  which  had  escaped  her  when  she  last 
saw  Tudor  Hall,  and  she  thought  they  were  dictated  by  something 
like  a proplietic  spirit.  She  had  then  said,  as  she  leaned  upon  a little 
gate  which  looked  into  the  domain,  “ when  these  woods  again  glow 
with  vegetation ; when  every  shade  resounds  with  harmony,  and  the 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBE? 


ns 


flowers  and  the  blossoms  spread  tl^eir  foliage  to  the  sun  ah ! ah, 
where  will  Amanda  he?  far  distant,  in  all  probability,  from  these 
delightful  shades;  perhaps  deserted  and  forgotten  by  their  master.” 

She  was  indeed  far  distant  from  them ; deserted,  and  if  not  forgot- 
ten, at  least  only  remembered  with  contempt  h^^  their  master  t 
remembered  with  contempt  by  Lord  Mortimer.  It  was  an  idea 
of  intolerable  anguish;  his  name  was  no  more  repeated  as  a charm 
to  soothe  her  grief ; this  idea  increased  her  mfsery. 

She  continued  indulging  her  melancholy  meditations,  till  informed 
by  one  of  the  children  the  captain  was  ready  to  receive  her.  She 
hastened  in.  and  found  him  in  an  old  high-backed  chair  and  the 
ravages  of  care  and  sickness  were  now  more  visible  to  her  than  they 
had  been  the  night  before ; he  was  reduced  to  a mere  skeleton ; “the 
originaJ  brightness  of  his  form”  was  quite  gone,  and  he  seemed 
already  on  the  very  brink  of  the  grave.  The  agony  of  Amanda’s 
feelings  was  expressed  on  her  countenance ; he  perceived  and  guessed 
its  source.  He  endeavoured  to  compose  and  comfort  her.  She  men- 
tioned a physician ; he  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  the  idea  of  bring- 
ing one,  but  she  besought  him,  in  compassion  to  her,  to  consent,  and, 
overcome  by  her  earnestness,  he  at  last  promised  the  ensuing  day  she 
should  do  as  she  wished. 

It  was  now  Sunday,  and  he  desired  the  service  of  the  day  to  bo 
read.  A small  bible  lay  on  the  table  before  him,  and  Amanda  com- 
plied with  his  desire.  In  the  first  lesson  were  these  words:  “Leave 
thy  fatherless  children  to  me,  and  I will  be  their  father.”  The  tears 
gushed  from  Fitzalan;  he  laid  his  hand,  which  appeared  convulsed 
with  agitation,  on  the  book.  “ Oh ! what  words  of  comfort,”  cried 
he,  “are  these;  what  transport  do  they  convey  to  the  heart  of  a 
parent  burthened  with  anxiety ! Yes,  merciful  Power  I will,  with 
grateful  joy,  commit  my  children  to  thy  care,  for  thou  art  the  friend 
who  wilt  never  forsake  them.”  He  desired  Amanda  to  proceed ; her 
voice  was  weak  and  broken,  and  the  tears,  in  spite  of  her  elTorts  to 
restrain  them,  stole  down  her  cheeks. 

"When  she  had  concluded,  her  father  drew  towards  him,  and 
inquired  into  all  that  hf  d past  during  her  stay  in  London.  She  rela- 
ted to  him,  without  reserve,  the  various  incidents  sho  had  met  with 
previous  to  her  going  to  the  marchioness’s:  acknowledg(^d  the  hopci 
and  fiars  sho  experienced  on  Lord  Mortimer’s  account : aud  the  argu 


334 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ments  had  made  use  of  to  induce  her  to  a clandestine  uni  on  ^ with 
her  positive  refusal  :o  such  a step. 

A be^im  of  pleasure  illumined  the  pallid  face  of  Fitzalan  you 
acted,’’  said  he,  “ as  I expected,  and  I glory  in  my  ohild,  and  feel 
more  indignation  than  ever  against  Lord  Cherhury  for  his  mean  sus- 
picions.”---Amanda  was  convinced  those  suspicions  had  been  infused 
into  his  mind  by  those  who  had  struck  at  her  peace  and  fame.  This 
idea,  however,  as  welLas  their  injuries  to  her,  she  meant  if  possible, 
to  conceal. — When  her  father,  therefore,  desired  her  to  proceed  in  liec 
narrative,  her  voice  began  to  falter,  her  mind  became  disturbed,  and 
her  countenance  betrayed  her  agitation.  The  remernbraime  of  tbe 
dreadful  scenes  she  had  gone  through  at  the  marchioness’s  made  her 
Involuntarily  shudder,  and  she  wished  to  conceal  them  forever  fix)m 
her  father,  but  found  it  impossible  to  evade  his  minute  and  earrest 
inquiries. 

‘‘  Gracious  heaven,”  said  he,  on  hearing  them,  Avhat  complicated 
cruelty  and  deceit!  inhuman  monsters!  to  Lave  no  pity  on  one 
s®  young,  so  innocent,  so  hopeless ; the  hand  of  sorrow  has  indeed 
prest  heavy  on  thee,  my  child ; but  after  the  marchioness’s  former 
conduct,  I cannot  be  surprised  at  any  action  of  hers.” 

He  gave  her  a note  to  discharge  her  debt  to  Howell,  and  begged 
she  would  immediately  write,  and  return  his  grateful  acknowldgements 
for  his  benevolence. — She  feared  he  inconvenienced  himself  by  parting 
with  the  note,  but  he  assured  her  he  could  spare  it  extremely  well, 
as  he  had  been  an  economist,  and  had  still  sufficient  money  to  support 
tnem  a few  months  longer  in  their  present  situation. 

Amanda  now  inquired  when  he  had  heard  from  her  brother : she 
said  he  had  not  answered  her  last  letter,  and  that  his  silence  bad  made 
her  very  uneasy. 

“Alas,  poor  Oscar!”  exclaimed  Fitzalan,  “he  has  not  been  exempt 
from  his  portion  of  distress. 

He  took  a letter,  as  he  spoke,  from  his  pocket-book,  and  presented 
it  to  Amanda.  Sh?  opened  it  with  a trembling  hand,  and  read  as 
follows : 

Mt  Dear  Father. 

Particular  circumsfaDces  prevented  my  an?wennF  youi*  lact  letter  f.s  soon  as  I cool  5 
have  wished ; and,  indeed,  the  intelligence  I have  to  romraunicate  makes  me  almost  avers** 
to  write  at  all.  As  my  situation,  however,  must  sooner  or  later  be  known  to  you,  Z thinJ; 
it  better  to  inform  you  of  it  myself,  as  I can,*at  the  same  time,  reconcile  ycu,  I trust,  ite 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


335 


iome  deipree  to  it.  by  assuring  you  I bear  it  patiently,  and  that  it  has  not  been  caused  by 
any  action  which  can  degrade  my  character,  as  a man  or  a soldier,  I have  long,  indeed, 
had  a powerful  enemy  to  cope  with,  and  it  will,  no  doubt,  surprise  you  to  hear  that  that 
^ enemy  is  Colonel  Felgrave.  An  interference  in  the  cause  of  humanity  provoked  his  inso- 
lence and  malignity ; neither  his  words  nor  looks  were  bearable,  and  I was  irritated  by 
them  to  send  him  a challenge;  had  I reflected,  the  probable  consequences  of  such  a step 
must  have  occurred,  and  prevented  my  taking  it,  but  passion  blinded  my  reason,  and  in 
yielding  to  its  dictates  do  I hold  myself  alone  culpable  throughout  the  whole  affair.  I gavo 
him  the  opportunity  his  malicious  heart  had  long  desired,  of  working  my  ruin.  I was,  by 
his  order,  put  under  an  immediate  arrest.  A court  martial  was  held,  and  I was  broke  for 
disrespect  to  a superior  officer ; but  it  was  imagined  by  the  whole  corps  I should  have 
been  restored.  I,  however,  know  too  much  of  Belgrave’s  disposition  to  believe  this  would 
be  the  case ; but  never  shall  he  triumph  in  the  distress  he  has  caused,  by  witnessing  it.  I 
have  already  settled  on  the  course  I shall  pursue,  and  ere  the  letter  reaches  you  I shall 
have  quitted  my  native  kingdom.  Forgive  me,  my  dear  Sir,  for  not  consulting  you  rela- 
tive to  my  conduct ; but  I feared  if  I did,  your  tenderness  would  interfere  to  prevent  it, 
or  lead  you  to  distress  yourself  on  my  account;  and  to  think  that  you  and  my  dear 
Bister  were  deprived  of  the  smallest  comfort  by  my  means,  would  be  a source-of  intolerable 
anguish  to  me.  Blest  as  I am  with  youth,  health,  and  fortitude,  I have  no  doubt  but  I 
shall  make  iny  way  through  the  rugged  path  of  life  extremely  well.  A parting  visit  I 
avoided  from  the  certainty  of  its  being  painful  to  us  both.  I shall  write  as  soon  as  I 
reach  my  place  of  destination.  I rejoice  to  hear  Amanda  is  so  happily  situated  with  Lady 
Greystock : may  your  suffering  and  her  merit  be  rewarded  as  they  deserve.  Suffer  not,  I 
entreat,  too  tender  an  anxiety  for  my  interest  to  disturb  your  repose.  . I again  repeat  I 
have  no  doubt  but  that  I shall  do  well;  that  providence  in  which  I trust  will,  1 humbly 
hope,  support  me  through  every  difficulty,  ahd  again  unite  me  to  the  friends  so  valuable 
to  my  heart. — Farewell  my  dear  father,  and  be  assured,  with  unabated  respect  and 
gratitude,  I subjoin  myself  your  affectionate  son, 

Oscar  Fitzalan. 

This  letter  was  a cruel  shock  to  Amanda ; she  hoped  to  have  pro- 
cured her  brother’s  company,  and  that  her  father’s  melancholy  and 
her  own  would  have  been  alleviated  by  it.  Sensible  of  the  difficulties 
Oscar  must  undergo,  without  friends  or  fortune,  the  tears  stole  down 
her  cheeks,  and  she  almost  dreaded  she  should  no  more  behold  him. 

Her  father  besought  her  to  spare  him  the  misery  of  seeing  those 
tears ; he  leaned  upon  her  for  comfort  and  support,  he  said,  and  bid 
her  not  disappoint  him.  She  hastily  wiped  av^ay  her  tears;  and 
though  she  could  not  conquer,  tried  to  suppress  her  anguish. 

Johnaten  and  Kate  called  in  the  course  of  the  day,  to  know  if  tlfoy 
could  be  of  any  service  to  Titzalan. — Amanda  engaged  Johnaten  to 
go  to  town  the  next  morning  for  a physician,  and  gave  ¥ ate  the  ker 
of  a wardrobe,  where  she  had  left  some  things,  which  she  desired  he^ 
to  pack  up,  and  send  to  the  cabin  in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Bryno  gave 
thorn  one  of  her  fowls  for  diimor,  and  Fitzalan  assumed  an  appear- 


336 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ance  of  clieerfulness,  and  the  evening  wore  away  somewhat  better 
than  the  preceding  part  of  the  day  had  done. 

Johnaten  was  punctual  in  obeying  Amanda’s  commands,  and 
brought  a physician  the  next  morning  to  the  cabin.  Fitzalan  appear- 
ed much  worse,  and  Amanda  rejoiced  that  she  had  been  resolute 
in  procuring  him  advice. 

She  withdrew  from  the  room  soon  after  the  physician  had  entered 
it,  and  waited  without  in  trembling  anxiety  for  his  appearance. 

When  he  came  out,  she  asked,  with  a faltering  voice  his  opinion, 
and  besought  him  not  to  deceive  her,  from  pity  to  her  feelings. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  assured  her  he  would  not  deviate  from 
truth  for  the  world.  “ The  captain  was,  indeed,  in  a ticklish  situa- 
tion,” he  said ; ‘‘  but  the  medicine  he  had  ordered,  and  sea  bathing  he 
doubted  iTot,  would  set  all  to  rights ; it  was  fortunate,”  he  added, 
“she  delayed  no  longer  sending  for  him;”  mentioned  twenty  miracu- 
lous cures  he  had  performed ; admired  the  immense  fine  prospect 
before  the  door,  and  wished  her  a good  morning,  with  what  he 
thought  quite  a d6gag<§e  and  irresistible  air. 

She  was  willing  to  believe  his  assurance  of  her  father’s  recovery,  as 
the  drowning  wretch  will  grasp  at  every  straw ; she  eagerly  embraced 
the  shadow  of  comfort,  and  in  the  recovery  of  her  father,  looked  for- 
ward to  consolation  for  all  her  sorrows.  She  struggled  against  her 
own  iUness,  that  no  assiduous  attention  might  be  wanting  to  him ; and 
would  have  set  up  with  him  at  night,  had  he  not  positively  insisted 
on  her  going  to  bed. 

The  medicines  he  was  ordered  he  received  from  her  hands,  but 
with  a look  which  seemed  to  express  his  conviction  of  their  ineffica- 
cy.  All,  however,  she  wished  him  to  do  he  did,  and  often  raised  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  as  to  implore  it  to  reward  her  care,  and  yet  a little 
longer  to  spare  him  to  this  beloved  child,  whose  happiness  so  much 
depended  on  the  prolongation  of  his  existence. 

Four  days  passed  heavily  away,  and  the  assurances  of  the  physi- 
cian, who  was  punctual  in  his  attendance,  lost  their  effect  upon 
Amanda. 

Her  father  was  considerably  altered  for  the  worse,  and  unable  to 
rise,  except  for  a few  minutes  in  the  evening,  to  have  his  bed  made. 
He  complained  of  no  pain  or  sickness,  but  seemed  sinking  beneath  an 
easy  and  gradual  decay.  It  was  only  at  intervals  he  could  converse 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


837 


with  his  daughter.  His  conversation  was  then  calcnlated  to'strengthen 
her  fortitude  and  resignation,  and  prepare  her  for  an  approaching 
melancholy  event.  Whenever  she  received  a hint  of  it,  her  agony 
was  inexpressible ; but  pity  for  her  feelings  could  not  prevent  her 
father  from  using  every  opportunity  that  occurred  for  laying  down 
rules  and  f ^scepts,  which  might  be  serviceable  to  her  when  without  a 
guide  or  protector.  Sometimes  he  adverted  to  the  past,  but  this  was 
only  done  to  make  her  more  cautious  of  the  future. 

He  charged  her  to  avoid  any  further  intimacy  with  Lord  Mortimer, 
as  an  essential  measure  for  the  restoration  of  her  peace  and  preserva- 
tion of  his  fame,  and  the  removal  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  unjust  suspi- 
cions, who  will  find  at  last,  continued  he,  how  much  he  wronged  me, 
and  may,  perhaps,  feel  compunction,  when  beyond  his  power  to  make 
reparation- 

To  all  he  desired,  Amanda  promised  a religious  observance ; she 
thought  it  unnecessary  in  him,  indeed,  to  desire  her  to  avoid  Lord 
Mortimer,  convinced  as  she  was  that  he  had  utterly  abandoned  her ; 
but  the  grief  this  desertion  occasioned,  she  believed,  she  should  soon 
overcome,  was  her  father  once  restored  to  health,  for  then  she  would 
have  no  time  for  useless  regrets  or  retrospection,  but  be  obliged  to 
pass  every  hour  in  active  exertions  for  his  support  and  comfort. 

A week  passed  away  in  this  manner  at  the  cabin;  a week  of 
wretchedness  to  Amanda,  who  perceived  her  father  growing  weakei 
and  weaker. 

She  assisted  him,  as  usual,  to  rise  one  evening,  for  a few  minutes ; 
when  dressed,  he  complained  of  an  oppression  in  his  breathing,  and 
desired  to  be  supported  to  the  air.  Amanda,  with  difficulty,  led  him 
to  the  window,  which  she  opened,  and  seated  him  by  it : then  knelt 
Defore  him,  and  putting  her  arms  round  his  waist,  fastened  her  eyes 
with  anxious  tenderness  upon  his  face. 

The  evening  was  serenely  fine ; the  sun  was  setting  in  all  its  glory ; 
and  the  sea,  illumined  by  its  parting  beams,  looked  like  a sheet  of 
burnished  silver. 

“What  a lovely  scene!”  cried  Fitzalan,  faintly;  “with  what 
majesty  does  the  sun  retire  from  the  world;  the  calmness  which 
attends  its  departure,  is  such,  I think,  as  must  attend  the  exit  of  a 
good  man.” 

He  paused  for  a few  minutes,  then  raisinsr  his  eves  to  heaven. 

15 


838 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


exclaimed,  “ Merciful  Power  I had  it  pleased  thee,  I could  have  wished 
yet  a little  longer  to  have  been  spared  to  this  young  creature ! but  thy 
will,  not  mine,  be  done ; confiding  in  thy  mercy,  I leave  her  virith 
some  degree  of  fortitude.” 

Amanda’s  tears  began  to  flow  as  he  spoke ; he  raised  his  hand  on 
which  they  fell,  and  kissing  them  olf,  exclaimed,  “ precious  drops : 
my  Amanda,  weep  not  too  bitterly  for  me ; like  a weary  traveller, 
think  that  rest  must  now  be  acceptable  to  me.” 

She  interrupted  him,  and  conjured  him  to  change  the  discourse. 
He  shook  his  head  mournfully ; pressed  her  hands  between  his,  and 
said, 

‘‘  Yet  a little  longer,  my  child,  bear  with  it ;”  then  bid  her  assure 
her  brother,  whenever  they  met,  which  he  trusted  and  believed 
would  be  soon,  he  had  his  father’s  blessing ; “ the  only  legacy,”  he 
cried,  “ I can  leave  him : but  one  I am  confident  he  merits,  and  will 
value ; to  you,  my  girl,  I have  no  doubt  he  will  prove  a friend  and 
guardian ; you  may  both,  perhaps,  be  amply  recompensed  for  all  your 
sorrows.  ProvideAce  is  just  in  all  its  dealings,  and  may  yet  render 
the  lovely  offspring  of  my  Malvina  truly  happy.” 

He  appeared  exhausted  by  speaking,  and  Amanda  assisted  him  to 
lie  down,  entreating  him  at  the  same  time  to  take  some  drops.  Ho 
consented,  and,  while  she  was  pouring  them  out  at  a little  table,  her 
back  to  the  bed,  she  heard  a deep  groan : the  bottle  dropped  from  her 
hand,  she  sprang  to  the  bed,  and  perceived  her  father  lying  senseless 
on  the  pillow.  She  imagined  he  had  fainted,  and  screamed  out  for 
assistance. 

The  woman  of  the  cabin,  her  husband  and  mother,  all  rushed  into 
the  room  ; he  was  raised  up,  his  temples  and  hands  chafed,  and  every 
remedy  within  the  house  applied  for  his  recovery — but  in  vain — his 
spirit  had  forsaken  its  tenement  of  clay  for  ever. 

Amanda,  when  convinced  of  this,  wrung  her  hands  together,  then, 
fiuddenly  opening  them,  she  clasped  the^ifeless  body  to  her  bro/ist, 
and  sunk  fainting  beside  it. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


339 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

She  remained  a considerable  time  in  a state  of  insensibility,  and^ 
when  recovered,  she  found  herself  in  a bed  lain  upon  the  floor,  in 
a corner  of  the  outside  room ; her  senses  were  at  first  confused ; she 
felt  as  if  waking  from  a disagreeable  dream,  but  in  a few  minutes  a 
perfect  recollection  of  what  had  past  returning,  she  saw  some  one 
sitting  by  the  bed : she  raised  herself  a little,  and  perceived  sister 
Mary : “ This  is  indeed  a charitable  visit,”  cried  she,  extending  her 

hand,  and  speaking  in  a low  broken  voice.  The  good-natured  nun 
jumped  from  her  seat  on  hearing  her  speak,  and  embraced  her  most 
tenderly.  Her  caresses  afiected  Amanda  inexpressibly : she  dropped 
her  head  upon  her  breast  and  wept  with  a vehemence  which  relieved 
the  oppression  of  her  heart. 

Sister  Mary  said,  she  had  never  heard  of  her  return  to  the  country, 
till  Mrs.  Bryne  came  to  St.  Catherine’s  for  a few  sprigs  of  rosemary 
to  strew  over  the  poor  captain ; she  had  returned  with  her  then  to 
the  cabin  to  try  if  she  could  be  of  any  service,  and  to  invite  her,  in 
the  name  of  the  prioress  and  the  whole  sisterhood,  to  the  convent. 

Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  kind  invitation,  which,  she  said,  she 
must  decline  accepting  for  a few  days,  till  she  had  performed  all  her 
duties,  which,  in  a voice  half  stifled  by  sobs,  she  added,  “the  grave 
would  soon  terminate;  she  was  sorry,”  she  said,  “that  they  had 
undressed  her,  and  requested  sister  Mary  to  assist  her  in  putting  on 
her  clothes.”  The  sister  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  this,  but  soon 
found  she  was  determined  to  spend  the  remainder  of  the  night  in  her 
father’s  apartment;  she  accordingly  dressed  her,  for  Amanda’s 
trembling  hands  refused  their  accustomed  office,  and  made  her  take 
a glass  of  wine  and  water  ere  she  sufiered  her  to  move  towards  the 
door.  Amanda  was  astonished,  as  she  approached  it,  to  hear  a violent 
noise,  like  the  mingled  sounds  of  laughing  and  singing;  her  whole 
soul  recoiled  at  the  tumult,  and  she  asked  sister  Mary,  with  a counte- 
nance of  terror,  “what  it  meant!”  She  replied,  “it  was  only  some 
friends  and  neighbours  doing  honour  to  the  captain.”  Amanda 
hastily  opened  the  door,  anxious  to  terminate  the  suspense  these 
words  occasioned;  but  how  great  was  her  horror  when  she  perceived 


840 


OHILDRSN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


It  set  of  the  meanest  rustics  assembled  round  the  bed,  with  every 
appearance  of  inebriety,  laughing,  shouting  and  smoking.  What  a 
savage  scene  for  a child,  whose  heart  was  bursting  with  grief  I She 
shrieked  with  horror,  and  flinging  herself  into  the  arms  of  eister 
Mary,  conjured  her  to  have  the  room  cleared. 

Sister  Mary,  from  being  accustomed  to  such  scenes,  felt  neither 
horror  nor  disgust;  she  complied,  however,  with  the  request  of 
Amanda,  and  besought  them  to  depart,  saying,  ‘Hhat  Miss  Fitzalau 
was  a stranger  to  their  customs,  and  besides,  poor  tiling,  quite 
beside  herself  with  grief.”  They  began  to  grumble  at  the  proposal 
cf  removing,  they  had  made  preparations  for  spending  a merry  night, 
and  Mrs.  Bryne  said,  “ if  she  had  thought  things  would  have  turned 
out  in  this  way,  the  captain  might  have  found  some  other  place  to 
die  in — ^for  the  least  one  could  have,  after  his  giving  them  so  much 
trouble,  was  a little  enjoyment  with  one’s  friends  at  the  latter  end.” 
Johnaten  and  Kate,  who  were  among  the  party,  joined  their 
entreaties  to  sister  Mary’s,  and  she,  to  tempt  them  to  compliance, 
said,  “ that  in  all  probability  they  would  soon  have  another  and  a 
better  opportunity  for  making  merry  than  the  present.”  They  at 
length  retired,  and  sister  Mary  and  Amanda  were  left  alone  in  the 
chamber  of  death.  The  dim  light  which  remained  cast  a glimmering 
shade  upon  the  face  of  Fitzalan,  that  added  to  its  ghastliness 
Amanda  now  indulged  in  all  the  luxury  of  grief,  and  found  in  sister 
Mary  a truly  sympathetic  friend,  for  the  good  nun  was  famed 
throughout  the  little  circle  of  her  acquaintance  for  weeping  with 
those  that  wept,  and  rejoicing  with  those  that  rejoiced.  She 
obtained  a promise  from  Amanda  of  accompanying  her  to  St. 
Catharine’s  as  soon  as  her  father  was  interred;  and  in  return  for 
this  she  gave  an  assurance  for  continuing  with  her  till  the  last  melan- 
choly offices  were  over,  and  also,  that,  with  the  “Assistance  of  Johna- 
ten, she  would  see  every 'filing  proper  provided ; this  was  some  com- 
fort to  Amanda,  who  felt  herself  at  present  unequal  to  any  exertion ; 
yet,  notwithstanding  her  fatigue  and  illness,  she  persevered  in  her 
resolution  of  sitting  up  with  her  father  every  night,  dreading  that,  if 
she  retired  to  bed,  a scene  of  riot  would  again  ensue,  which,  in  her 
opinion,  was  sacrilege  to  the  dead.  She  went  to  bed  every  morning 
and  was  nursed  with  the  most  tender  affection  by  sister  Mary,  who 
also  insisted  on  being  her  companion  at  night.  This,  howaver,  was 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


341 


but  a rnere  matter  of  form,  for  the  good  sister  was  totally  unable  to 
keep  her  eyes  open  and  slept  as  comfortable  upon  the  earthen  floor, 
with  her  gown  made  into  a pillow  for  her  head,  as  if  laid  upon  the 
down ; then  was  poor  Amanda  left  to  her  own  reflections,  and  the 
melancholy  contemplation  of  her  beloved  father’s  remains.  The 
evening  of  the  fourth  day  after  his  decease  was  fixed  upon  for  his 
interment ; with  streaming  eyes  and  a breaking  heart,  Amanda  beheld 
him  put  into  the  coffin,  and  in  that  moment  felt  as  if  he  had  again 
died  before  her.  A small  procession  attended,  consisting  of  the 
people  of  the  house,  Johnaten  and  Kate,  and  a few  respectable 
farmers,  to  whom  Fitzalan  had  endeared  himself  during  his  short 
abode  at  Castle  Carbery : the  men  had  scarfs  and  hat-bands,  and  tha 
women  hoods. 

Johnaten,  who  had  been  a soldier  in  his  youth,  resolved  to  pay 
some  military  honour,  and  placed  his  hat  and  sword  upon  the  coffin, 

Amanda  by  the  most  painful  efforts,  supported  the  preparations  for 
his  removal : but  when  she  saw  the  coffin  actually  raised  to  be  taken 
out,  she  could  no  longer  restrain  her  feelings : she  shrieked  in  the 
agony  of  her  soul,  a sickness  almost  deadly  seized  her,  and  she  feU 
fainting  upon  sister  Mary’s  bosom  I 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Oh ! let  me  unlade  my  breast, 

Pour  out  the  fulness  of  my  soul  before  you, 

Show  every  tender,  every  grateful  thought. 

This  wond’rous  goodness  stirs ; But  ’tis  impossible, 

And  utterance  all  is  vile : since  I can  only 
Swear  you  reign  here,  but  never  t«ll  how  much. 

^ Viow^^Fair  Pen, 

Sister  Mary  recovered  her  with  difficulty,  but  found  it  impossible 
to  remove  her  from  the  cabin  till  she  was  once  more  composed.  In 
about  two  hours  its  inhabitants  returned,  and  the  car  having  arrived, 
which  she  had  ordered  to  convey  Amanda  to  St.  Catharine’s,  she 
was  placed  upon  it  is  a state  scarcely  animate,  and  supported  by  sifl- 
ter  Mary,  'was  conveyed  to  that  peaceful  asylum. 


S42 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


On  arriving  at  it,  she  was  carried  immediately  into  the  prioress^ 
apartment,  who  received  and  welcomed  her  with  the  most  tender 
affection  and  sensibility — a tenderness  which  roused  Amanda  from 
the  stupefaction  into  which  she  appeared  sinking  and  made  her  weep 
violently.  She  felt  relieved  from  doing  so,  and  as  some  return  for 
the  kindness  she  received,  endeavoured  to  appear  benefitted  by  it; 
she  therefore  declined  going  to  bed,  but  lay  down  upon  a little  matted 
couch  in  the  prioress’  room,  the  tea-table  was  close  by  it ; as  she 
refused  any  other  refreshment,  she  obtained  this  by  a promise  of 
eating  something  with  it ; none  of  the  sisterhood,  sister  Mary  except- 
ed, were  admitted,  and  Amanda  felt  this  delicate  attention  and 
respect  to  her  sorrows  with  gratitude. 

She  arrived  on  the  eve  of  their  patron  Saint  at  the  convent,  which 
was  always  celebrated  with  solemnity:  after  tea,  therefore,  the  pri- 
oress and  sister  Mary  were  compelled  to  repair  to  the  chapel,  but  she 
removed  the  reluctance  they  felt  to  leave  her  alone  by  complaining  of 
being  drowsy.  A pillow  being  laid  under  her  head  by  sister  Mary, 
soon  after  they  quitted  her,  she  fell  into  a profound  slumber,  in  which 
she  continued  till  awoke  by  distant  music,  so  soft,  so  clear,  so  harmo- 
nious, that  the  delightful  sensation  it  gave  her,  she  could  only 
compare  to  those  which  she  imagined  a distressed  and  pensive  soul 
would  feel,  when,  springing  from  the  shackles  of  mortality,  it  first 
heard  the  heavenly  sounds  that  welcomed  it  to  the  realms  of  eternal 
bliss. 

The  chapel,  from  which  those  celestial  sounds  pi'eceeded,  was  at 
the  extremity  of  the  house,  so  that  they  sometimes  swelled  upon  her 
ear,  sometimes  faintly  sunk  upon  it.  The  pauses  in  the  organ,  which 
was  finely  played,  were  filled  up  by  the  sweet,  though  less  powerful 
strains  of  the  sisterhood,  who  sung  a hymn  in  honour  of  their  Saint. 

No  4)ne  was  here  exempt, 

No  voice  but  well  could  join  melodious  part. 

’Tis  a foretaste  of  heaven,  thought  Amanda.  She  heard  a deep  sigh 
behind  her.  She  turned  her  head  hastily,  and  perceived  a figure 
standing  near,  which  bore  a strong  resemblance  to  Lord  Mortimer. 
She  was  alarmed-^she  could  not  believe  it  was  him.  The  light  which 
the  small  heavy-arched  window  admitted  was  imperfect,  and  she  rose 
from  <he  couch  to  be  better  assured  it  was  or  was  not  him ; a second 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


843 


glance  convinced  her  she  might  have  believed  her  eyes  at  first.—- 
Trembling  and  astonished  she  sunk  upon  a seat,  exclaiming,  “Gra- 
cious heaven  I what  can  have  brought  Lord  Mortimer  hither  ?” 

He  made  no  reply,  but  kneeling  before  her,  took  her  hands  in  his 
and  pressed  them  to  his  forehead  and  lips,  and  laid  his  head  upon 
them. 

“ Why,”  cried  Amanda,  unutterably  affected  by  the  emotions  he 
betrayed,  “why,  my  lord,  are  you  oome  hither?” 

“ To  try,”  he  replied  in  au  voice  scarcely  articulate,  “ whether  Miss 
Fitzalan  will  yet  consider  me  as  her  friend  ?” 

“ That,  my  lord,”  said  she,  “ depends  upon  circumstances ; but 
while  your  lordship  remains  in  your  present  position,  what  they  are 
I cannot  explain.” 

Lord  Mortimer  instantly  arose,  and  seated  himself  by  her ; “ How 
tell  me,”  said  he,  “ what  those  circumstances  are.” 

“The  first,  my  lord,  is  to  exculpate  my  father  in  the  opinion  of 
Lord  Cherbury,  and  by  declaring  the  commencement  and  progress  of 
our  acquaintance,  eradicate  from  his  lordship’s  mind  the  injurious 
suspicions  he  entertained  against  him.  This,  perhaps,  you  will  say  is 
useless,  considering  those  suspicions  can  no  longer  wound  him ; but, 
my  lord,  I deem  it  an  incumbent  duty  on  me  to  remove  from  his 
memory  the  obloquy  on  my  account  cast  on  it.” 

“I  promise  you  most  solemnly,”  said  Lord  Mortimer;  “you  shall 
^ be  obeyed.  This  is  a debt  of  justice,  which  I had  resolved  to  pay  ere 
I received  your  injunction  for  doing  so ; it  is  but  lately  I heard  of  the 
unjust  charges  made  against  him ; nor  do  I know  what  fiend  gave  rise 
to  them.” 

“ The  same,  perhaps,”  exclaimed  Amanda,  “ who  spread  such  com- 
plicated snares  for  my  destruction,  and  involved  me  in  every  horror 
but  that  which  proceeds  from  conscious  guilt.  Oh!  my  lord,  the  sec- 
ond circumstance  I allude  to  is,  if  you  should  hear  my  name  treated 
with  scorn  and  contempt  by  those  few,  those  very  few  whom  I had 
reason  to  esteem,  and  believed  esteemed  me,  that  you  wiU  kindly 
interpose  in  my  justification,  and  say,  I merited  not  the  aspersions 
cast  upon  me.  Believe  me  innocent,  and  you  will  easily  persuade 
others  that  I am  so.  You  shake  your  head,  as  much  as  to  say 
you  cannot  think  me  so  after  the  proofs  you  have  seen  to  the  contra- 
ry. Ah!  my  lord,  the  proofs  were  contrived  by  malice  and  treachery, 


344 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


to  min  me  in  tlie  estimation  of  my  friends,  and  by  perfidy  to  force 'ino 
into  crime,  of  which  I already  bear  the  appearance  and  stigma. 
Surely  in  this  solemn  hour,  which  has  seen  my  beloved  father  con- 
signed to  his  kindred  earth,  when  with  a mind  harassed  by  sorrow 
and  with  a body  worn  out  with  fatigue,  I feel  as  if  standing  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave,  I should  be  the  most  abandoned  of  wretches, 
if  I could  assert  my  innocence  without  the  consciousness  of  really 
possessing  it : hTo,  my  lord,  by  such  a falsehood  I should  not  only  ba 
wicked,  but  foolish  in  depriving  myself  of  that  happiness  hereafter, 
which  will  so  fully  recompense  my  present  miseries.” 

Oh ! Amanda,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  who  had  been  walking 
backwards  and  forwards  in  an  agitated  manner  while  she  spoke,  “you 
would  almost  convince  me  against  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses.” 

“Almost,”  she  repeated;  “then  I see,  my  lord,  you  are  determined 
to  disbelieve  me,  but  why,  since  so  prejudiced  against  me,  have  you 
come  hither?  Was  it  merely  to  be  assured  of  my  wretchedness?  To 
hear  me  say  that  I stand  alone  in  the  world,  without  one  being  inter- 
ested about  m}'  welfare,  that  my  present  asylum  is  bestowed  by 
charity,  and  that  if  my  life  be  prolonged  it  must  be  spent  in  struggling 
against  constitution,  sorrow  and  ill  fame  to  procure  a subsistence.” 

“ Mo,  no,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  fiinging  himself  at  her  feet, 
“never  shall  you  suffer  such  misery ; were  you  even  the  being  I was 
tempted  to  think  you  some  time  ago,  never  would  Mortimer  suffer 
the  woman  his  heart  doated  on  to  feel  such  calamity.  I do  not,  I 
cannot  believe  you  would  deceive  me.  There  is  an  irresistible  elo- 
quence in  your  words,  that  convinces  me  you  have  been  the  victim 
of  treachery,  and  I its  dupe ; I cannot  give  you  a more  convincing 
proof  of  my  confidence  in  you,  than  by  again  renewing  my  entreaties 
to  have  one  fame,  one  fate,  one  fortune  ours.” 

The  resolution  which  Amanda  had  forced  to  support  her  through 
the  painful  scene  she  guest  would  ensue  the  moment  she  saw  Lord 
Mortimer  now  vanished,  and  she  burst  into  a flood  of  tears. 

She  saw  his  conduct  in  the  most  generous,  the  most  exalted  light : 
notwithstanding  appearances  were  so  much  against  her,  he  was  will- 
ing to  rely  solely  on  her  own  asseveration  of  innocence,  and  to  run 
every  risk  on  her  account ; that  by  a union  he  might  shelter  her  from 
the  distress  of  her  present  situation : But  while  her  sensibility  was 
affected  by  his  expressions,  her  pride  was  alarmed  lest  he  should 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


345 


impute  lier  ardent  desire  of  vindicating  herself  to  the  expectation  of 
having  his  addresses  renewed.  In  broken  accents  she  endeavoured  to 
remove  such  an  idea  if  it  had  risen,  and  to  convince  him  that  all  fur- 
ther intimacy  between  them  must  now  be  terminated.  Lord  Mortimer 
ascribed  the  latter  part  of  her  speech  to  the  resentment  she  felt  against 
him  for  ever  entertaining  doubts  of  her  worth.  She  desired  him  to 
rise,  hut  he  refused  until  he  was  forgiven.  My  forgiveness  is  yours 
indeed,  my  lord,  said  she,  though  your  suspicions  wounded  me  to  the 
soul ; I can  scarcely  wonder  at  your  entertaining  them,  Avhen  I reflect 
on  the  diflTerent  situations  in  which  I was  found,  which,  if  your  lord- 
ship  can  spare  a little  longer  time,  or  deem  it  worth  devoting  to  such 
a purpose,  as  well  as  I am  able  I will  account  for  being  involved  in. — ■ 
Lord  Mortimer  declared  his  ardent  desire  to  hear  those  particulars, 
which  nothing  but  a fear  of  fatiguing  or  agitating  her  could  have 
prevented  his  before  expressing.  lie  then  seated  himself  by  her,  an(*l 
taking  her  cold  and  emaciated  hand  in  his,  listened  to  her  little  nar- 
rative. 

She  briefly  informed  him  of  her  father’s  residing  in  Devonshire 
after  the  death  of  her  mother,  of  the  manner  in  which  they  became 
acquainted  with  Colonel  Belgrave,  of  his  having  ingratiated  himself 
into  their  friendship,  by  pretending  to  he  Oscar’s  friend,  and  then, 
plunging  them  in  distress,  when  he  found  they  not  only  resisted  but 
resented  his  villanous  designs. 

She  related  the  artful  manner  in  which  Lady  Greystock  had  drawn 
her  from  her  father’s  protection,  and  the  cold  and  insolent  reception 
she  met  with  from  the  marchioness  and  her  daughter,  when  intro- 
duced by  the  above  mentioned  lady ; the  enmity  the  marchioness  bore 
her  father,  the  sudden  alteration  in  her  behaviour,  the  invitation  to 
her  house,  so  unexpected  and  unnecessary,  all  tending  to  inspire  a 
belief  that  she  was  concerned  in  contriving  Colonel  Belgrave’s  admit- 
tance to  the  house,  and  had  also  given  Lord  Cherbury  reason  to 
suspect  the  integrity  of  her  father. 

Lord  Mortimer  here  interrupted  Amanda  to  mention  the  conversa- 
tion which  passed  between  him  and  Mrs.  Jane  in  the  Hall. 

She  raised  her  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven  with  astonishment  at  such 
wickedness,  and  said,  though  she  always  suspected  the  girl’s  integ- 
rity, from  a certain  sycophant  air,  she  never  imagined  she  could  bo 
eapahle  of  such  baseness.” 

Lord  Mortimer  again  interrupted  her  to  mention  what  I^dv  Grev- 


846 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


stock  had  told  him  concerning  Mrs.  Jennings,,  as  also  what  the  house- 
keeper had  said  of  the  note  he  gave  for  Amanda. 

“Good  God!”  said  Amanda,  “when  I hear  of  all  the  enemies  I had, 
I almost  wonder  I escaped  so  well.”  She  then  resumed  her  narra- 
tive, accounted  for  the  dislike  Mrs.  Jennings  had  to  her,  and  explained 
the  way  in  which  she  was  entrapped  into  Colonel  Belgrave’s  power, 
the  almost  miraculous  manner  in  which  she  was  freed  from  his  house, 
the  friendship  she  received  from  Howell,  and  the  situation  in  which 
she  arrived  at  Castle  Carberry,  and  found  her  father.  The  closing  sceno 
she  could  not  describe,  for  sighs  and  sobs  impeded  her  utterance. 
Lord  Mortimer  gently  folded  her  to  his  breast;  he  called  his  dear, 
his  unfortunate,  his  lovely  girl,  more  precious  than  ever  to  his  heart, 
and  declared  he  never  again  would  quit  her  until  she  had  given  him  a 
right  to  espouse  her  quarrels,  and  secure  her  from  the  machinations 
of  her  enemies.  Her  warm  tears  wet  his  cheek  as  she  exclaimed, 
“ that  could  never  be.” 

“My  promise  is  already  past,”  cried  she,  that  which  was  given  to 
the  living  shall  not  be  forfeited  to  the  dead;  and  this,  my  lord,  by 
design,  is  the  last  time  we  must  ever  meet.” 

“What  promise?”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  “surely  no.  one  could 
be  so  inhuman  as  to  extort  a promise  from  you  to  give  me  up.” 

“It  was  not  inhumanity  extorted  it,”  replied  Amanda;  “but 
honour,  rectitude,  and  discretion ; without  forfeiting  those,  never 
»3an  I violate  it.  There  is  but  one  event  could  make  me  acqui- 
esce in  your  wishes,  that  is,  having  a‘  fortune  adequate  to  yours 
10  bring  you,  because  then  Lord  Clierbury  would  ascribe  no 
selfish  motive  to  my  conduct ; but  as  such  an  event  is  utterly 
improbable,  I might  almost  say  impossible,  it  is  certain  we  shall 
never  be  united.  Any  further  intercourse  between  us,  you  must 
therefore  be  convinced  would  injure  me.  Disturb  not,  therefore,  my 
lord,  my  retirement;  but  ere  you  depart,  allow  me  to  assure  you,  you 
have  lightened  the  weight  on  my  heart  by  crediting  what  I have  said : 
should  I not  recover  from  the  illness  which  now  preys  upon  me,  it 
will  cheer  my  departing  spirit  to  know  you  think  me  innocent;  and 
ff  I live,  it  will  support  me  through  many  difficulties,  and  often,  per- 
haps, after  the  toils  of  a busy  day,  shall  comfort  myself  by  reflecting. 
Uiat  those  I esteem,  if  they  think  of  me,  it  is  with  their  wonted 
regard.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  affected  by  tlie  manner  in  which  she  spoke,  hi« 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


347 


eyes  began  to  glisten,  and  be  was  again  declaring  be  would  not 
suffer  ber  to  sacrifice  happiness  at  tbe  sbrine  of  a too  scrupulous  and 
romantic  generosity,  when  tbe  door  opened  and  tbe  prioress  and  sis- 
ter Mary  (wbo  bad  been  detained  in  tbe  cbapel  by  a long  discourse 
from  tbe  priest)  entered,  bearing  lights. 

Lord  Mortimer  started  in  much  confusion,  retreated  to  one  of  tbe 
windows,  and  drew  out  bis.  handkerchief  to  conceal  the  emotions 
Amanda  bad  excited.  She  was  unable  to  speak  to  tbe  prioress  and 
sister  Mary  who  stared  round  them,  and  then  at  each  other,  not  cer- 
tain whether  they  should  advance  or  retreat.  Lord  Mortimer  in  a 
few  moments  recovered  bis  composure,  and  advancing  to  tbe  prioress 
apologized  for  bis  intrusion  into  her  apartment ; but  said  be  had  the 
honour  of  being  a friend  of  Miss  Fitzalan’s,  and  could  not  resist  bis 
wish  of  inquiring  in  person  after  ber  health,  as  soon  as  be  arrived  in 
tbe  country. 

Tbe  prioress,  wbo  bad  once  seen  a good  deal  of  the  polite  world, 
received  this  address  with  ease  and  complaisance.  Sister  Mary  went 
over  to  Amanda,  and  found  her  weak,  trembling,  and  weeping.  She 
expressed  tbe  utmost  concern  at  seeing  ber  in  such  a situation,  and 
immediately  procured  ber  a glass  of  wine,  which  she  insisted  on  ber 
taking.  Tbe  lights  now  gave  Lord  Mortimer  an  opportunity  of  con- 
templatiog  tbe  depredations  which  grief  and  sickness  bad  made  upon 
ber.  Her  pale  and  sallow  complexion,  ber  heavy  and  sunken  eyes, 
struck  him  with  horror.  He  could  not  conceal  bis  feeling.  Gra- 
cious heaven,”  cried  be,  going  to  tbe  couch,  and  taking  ber  band,  “ 1 
fear  you  are  very  ill.” 

She  looked  mournfully  in  his  face  without  speaking : but  this  look 
was  sufficient  to  assure  him  be  was  not  mistaken.  The  efforts  she  bad 
made  to  converse  with  him,  and  tbe  yet  greater  efforts  she  bad  made 
to  banish  him  forever  from  ber,  quite  exhausted  ber ; after  the  vari- 
ous miseries  she  bad  gone  through,  bow  soothing  to  ber  soul  would 
have  been  tbe  -attentions  of  Lord  Mortimer,  bow  pleasing,  bow 
delightful  tbe  ayslum  she  would  have  found  in  bis  arms ! But  no 
temptation,  no  distress,  she  resolved,  should  ever  make  her  disobey 
tbe  injunction  of  ber  adored  father. 

‘‘She  is  very  bad  indeed,”  said  sister  Mary,  '‘and  we  must  get  ber 
to  bed  as  soon  as  possible.” 

“She  requires  rest  and  repose  indeed,”  said  Lord  Mortimer;  ‘‘but 


818 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


tell  me,  mj  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,”  taking  her  hand,  “if  I have  tliosf 
good  ladies’  permission  for  calling  here  to-morrow,  will  you,  if  abl^ 
to  rise,  see  me?” 

“I  cannot  indeed,”  said  Amanda  ; “I  have  already  declared  tliis 
must  he  our  last  interview,  and  I shall  not  retract' from  what  I hare 
said.” 

“Then,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  regardless,  or  rather  forgetful 
cf  those  who  heard  him,  from  the  agitation  and  warmth  of  his  feel- 
ings^ “I  shall  in  one  respect,  at  least,  accuse  yon  of  dissimulation, 
that  of  feigning  a regard  for  me  you  never  felt.” 

“ Such  an  accusation  is  now  of  little  consequence,”  replied  Amanda; 
“perhaps  you  had  better  think  it  just.” 

“ Cruel,  inexorable  girl,  to  refuse  seeing  me,  to  wish  to  have  the 
anxiety  which  preys  upon  my  heart  prolonged.” 

“ Young  man,”  said  the  prioress,  in  an  accent  of  displeasure,  see- 
ing the  tears  streaming  down  Amanda’s  cheeks,  “ respect  her 
sorrows.” 

“Eespect  them,  madam,”  repeated  he;  “0  heaven!  I respect,  I 
venerate  them  : hut  will  you,  my  dear  lady  I when  Miss  Fitzalan  is 
able,  prevail  on  her  to  communicate  the  particulars  of  our  acquaint- 
ance ; and  will  you  then  become  my  advocate,  and  persuade  her  h) 
receive  my  visits?” 

“Impossible,  sir,”  said  the  prioress;  “I  shall  never  attempt  to 
desire  a larger  share  of  confidence  from  Miss  Fitzalan  than  she  desires 
to  bestow  upon  me.  From  my  knowledge  of  her  I am  convinced  her 
conduct  will  be  always  guided  by  discretion ; she  has  greatly  obliged 
me  by  choosing  this  humble  retreat  for  her  residence ; she  has  put 
herself  under  my  protection,  and  I shall  endeavour  to  fulfil  that 
sacred  trust  by  securing  her  from  any  molestation.” 

“Well,  madam,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “I  flatter  myself  Miss  Fitz- 
alan will  do  me  justice  in  declaring  my  visits  proceeded  from  wishes, 
which,  though  she  may  disappoint,  she  cannot  disapprove.  I shall  no 
longer  intrude  upon  your  time  or  hers,  but  will  still  hope  I shall  find 
you  both  less  inflexible.” 

He  took  up  his  hat,  he  approached  the  door ; but  when  he  glanced 
at  Amanda,  he  cOuld  not  depart  without  speaking  to  her,  and  again 
went  to  the  couch.  He  entreated  her  to  compose  and  exert  herself ; 
he  desired  her  forgiveness  for  any  warmth  he  had  betrayed,  and  he 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


849 


whispered  to  her  that  all  his  earthly  happiness  depended  her  re^ 
toration  to  health,  and  her  becoming  his.  He  insisted  on  her  now 
giving  him  her  hand  as  a pledge  of  amity  between  them.  She  com- 
plied : but  when  presuming  on  this,  he  again  asked  her  consent  to 
repeat  his  visits,  he  found  her  inexorable  as  ever,  and  retired  if  not 
with  a displeased,  with  a disappointed  countenance.  Sister  Mary 
attended  him  from  the  apartment.  At  the  door  of  the  convent  ho 
requested  her  to  walk  a few  paces  from  it  with  him,  saying  he  wanted 
to  speak  to  her.  She  consented,  and  remembering  he  was  the  person 
who  frightened  her  one  evening  amongst  the  ruins,  determined  now, 
if  she  had  an  opportunity,  to  ask  what  had  then  brought  him  hither. 

Ivord  Mortimer  knew  the  poverty  of  the  convent,  and  feared  Amanda 
might  want  many  things,  or  its  inhabitants  be  distressed  to  procure 
them  for  her ; he  therefore  pulled  out  a purse  and  presenting  it  to 
sister  Mary,  requested  she  would  apply  it  for  Miss  Fitzalan’s  use,- 
without  mentioning  any  thing  about  it  to  her. 

Sister  Mary  shook  the  purse, — “ Oh  I Jesu  Maria,”  exclaimed  she, 
“how  heavy  it  is!” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  retiring,  when  catching  hold  of  him,  she  cried, 
“ Stay,  stay,  I have  a word  or  two  to  say  to  you : I wonder  how  much 
there  is  in  this  purse  ?” 

Lord  Mortimer  smiled.  “ If  not  enough  for  the  present  emergencies, 
said  he,  “ it  shall  soon  be  replenished.” 

Sister  Mary  sat  down  upon  a tomb-stone,  and  very  deliberately 
counted  the  money  into  her  lap.  “ Oh ! mercy,”  said  she,  “ I never 
saw  so  many  guineas  together  before  in  all  my  life!” 

Again  Lord  Mortimer  smiled,  and  was  retiring,  but  again  stopping 
him,  she  returned  the  gold  into  the  purse,  and  declared  she  neither 
would  or  durst  keep  it. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  provoked  at  this  declaration,  and  without 
replying  to  it  walked  on.  She  ran  nimbly  after  him  and  dropping 
the  purse  at  his  feet,  was  out  of  sight  in  a moment. 

When  she  returned  to  the  prioress’  apartment  she  related  the 
incident,  and  took  much  merit  to  herself  for  acting  so  prudently 
The  prioress  commended  her  very  much,  and  poor  Amanda,  with  a 
faint  voice,  said  she  had  acted  quite  right. 

A little  room,  inside  the  prioress’  chamber,  was  prepared  foi 
Amanda,  into  which  she  was  now  conveyed,  and  the  good  natured 
Bister  Mary  brought  her  own  bed,  and  laid  it  beside  hers. 


850 


children  of  the  abbbt. 


CHAPTEE  XXXV. 

“ With  dirges  due  and  sad  array, 

“ Slow  through  the  church-way  path  I saw  him  borne.” 

It  will  now  be  necessary  to  account  for  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Lord  Mortimer  at  the  convent. — Our  reader  may  recollect  that  we 
left  him  in  London,  in  the  deepest  affliction  for  the  supposed  perfidy 
of  Amanda:  an  affliction  which  knew  no  diminution  from  time. 
Neither  the  tenderness  of  his  aunt,  Lady  Martha  Dormer,  or  the  kind 
consideration  his  father  showed  for  him,  who,  for  the  present,  ceased  to 
importune  him  about  Lady  Euphrasia,  could  have  any  lenient  effect  upon 
him ; he  pined  in  thought,  and  felt  a distaste  to  all  society ; he  at  last 
began  to  think,  that  though  Amanda  had  been  unhappily  led  astray, 
she  might  ere  this  have  repented  of  her  error,  and  forsaken  Colonel 
Belgrave ; to  know  whether  she  had  done  so,  or  whether  she  could 
be  prevailed  upon  to  give  him  up,  he  believed  would  be  an  alleviation 
of  his  sorrows.  No  sooner  had  he  persuaded  himself  of  this  than  he 
determined  on  going  to  Ireland  without  delay,  to  visit  Captain 
Eitzalan,  and  if  she  was  not  returned  to  his  protection,  advise  with 
him  about  some  method  of  restoring  her  to  it. 

He  told  Lord  Cher  bury  he  thought  an  excursion  into  Wales  would 
be  of  service  to  him.  His  lordship  agreed  on  thinking  it  might ; and 
secretly  delighted  that  all  danger  relative  to  Amanda  was  over, 
gladly  concurred  in  whatever  could  please  his  son,  flattering  himself, 
that  on  his  return  to  London,  he  would  no  longer  raise  any  objections 
to  an  alliance  with  the  fair  Scotch  heiress. 

Lord  Mortimer  travelled  with  as  much  expedition  to  Holyhead,  as 
if  certain  that  perfect  happiness,  not  a small  alleviation  of  misery, 
would  be  the  recompense  of  his  journey.  He  concealed  from  his  aunt 
the  real  motive  which  actuated  him  to  it,  blushing  even  to  himself  at 
the  weakness  lie  still  felt  relative  to  Amanda. 

When  he  crossed  the  water,  he  again  set  off  post,  attended  on  horse- 
back only  by  his  own  man ; within  one  mile  of  Castle  Carberry  he 
met  a little  mournful  procession  approaching,  which  "was  attending 
poor  Eitzalan  to  his  last  home.  The  carriage  stopped  to  let  them 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


851 


pass,  and  in  the  last  of  the  group  he  perceived  Johnaten,  who  at  the 
game  ruoinent  recognized  him.  Johnaten  with  much  surprise  in  his 
sountenance.  stepped  up  to  the  carriage,  and  after  bowing,  and  hum- 
bly hoping  his  lordship  was  well,  with  a melancholy  shake  of  his 
head,  informed  him  whose  remains  he  was  following. 

“Captain  Fitzalan  dead!”  repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  with  a face  as 
pale  as  death,  and  a faltering  voice,  while  his  heart  sunk  within  him 
at  the  idea,  that  his  father  was  to  some  degree  accessary  to  the  fatal 
event ; for  just  before  he  left  London  Lord  Cherbury  had  informed 
him  of  the  letter  he  wrote  to  Fitzalan,  and  this  he  believed,  joined 
to  his  own  immediate  family  misfortunes,  had  precipitated  him  from 
the  world.  “ Capain  Fitzalan  dead!”  he  exclaimed. 

“ Yes,  and  please  you  my  lord,”  said  Johnaten,  wiping  aw'ay  a tear, 
“ and  he  has  not  left  a better  or  a braver  man  behind  him.  Poor 
gentleman,  the  world  pressed  hard  upon  him.” 

“Had  he  no  tender  friend  about  him?”  asked  Lord  Mortimer. 
“Were  neither  of  his  children  with  him?” 

“ Oh  ! yes,  my  lord,  poor  Miss  Amanda.” 

“ She  was  with  him  ?”  said  Lord  Mortimer  in  an  eager  acctiit. 

“ Yes,  my  lord,  she  returned  here  about  ten  days  ago,  but  i,o  sadly 
altered,  I think  she  won’t  stay  long  behind  him.  Poor  thing,  she  is 
going  fast,  indeed,  and  the  more’s  the  pity,  for  she  is  a sweet 
creature.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  inexpressibly  shocked ; he  wished  to  hide  his 
emotions,  and  waved  his  hand  to  Johnaten  to  depart;  but  Johnaten 
either  did  not,  or  would  not  understand  the  motion,  and  he  was 
obliged  in  broken  accents  to  say,  he  would  no  longer  deAin  him. 

The  return  of  Amanda  was  to  him  a conviction  that  she  had  seen 
her  error  in  its  true  light ; he  pictured  to  himself  the  aTecting  scene 
which  must  have  ensued  between  the  dying  father  and  a penitent 
daughter,  so  loved,  so  valued  as  was  Amanda,  her  situation  when 
she  received  his  forgiveness  and  benediction ; he  represented  her  to 
himself  as  at  once  bewailing  the  loss  of  her  father,  and  her  otfences, 
endeavouring,  by  prayers,  by  tears,  by  sighs,  to  obliterate  them  in  the 
sight  of  Heaven,  and  render  herself  fit  to  receive  its  awful  fiat. 

He  heard  she  was  dying ; his  soul  recoiled  at  the  idea  of  seeing  her 
Alirouded  in  her  native  clay,  and  yet  he  could  not  help  believing  tliis 
the  only  peaceful  asylum  she  could  find,  to  be  "^eed  from  the  shafts 


852 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


of  contempt,  and  malice  of  the  world.  He  trembled  lest  he  should 
not  behold  the  lovely  penitent  while  she  was  capable  of  observing 
him : to  receive  a last  adieu,  though  dreadful,  would  yet  he  thought 
lighten  the  horrors  of  an  eternal  separation,  and  perhaps  too,  it  would 
be  some  comfort  to  her  departing  spirit  to  know  from  him  he  had 
pardoned  her,  and  conscious  surely,  he  thought  to  himself,  she  must 
be  of  needing  pardon  from  him,  whom  she  had  so  long  imposed  on 
by  a specious  pretext  of  virtue.  He  had  heard  from  Lord  Cherbury, 
that  Captain  Fitzalan  had  quitted  the  castle  ; he  knew  not  therefore 
at  present  where  to  find  Amanda,  nor  did  he  choose  to  make  any 
inquiries  till  he  again  saw  Johnaten. 

As  soon  as  the  procession  was  out  of  sight  he  alighted  from  the 
carriage ; and  ordering  his  man  to  discharge  it  on  arriving  at  Castle 
Carberry,  he  took  a path  across  the  fields,  which  brought  him  to  the 
side  of  the  church-yard  where  Fitzalan  was  to  be  interred. 

He  reached  it  just  as  the  coffin  w^as  lowering  into  the  earth ; a yew 
tree  growing  by  the  wall  against  which  he  leaned  hid  him  from 
observation.  He  heard  many  of  the  rustics  mentioning  the  merits  of 
the  deceased,  in  terms  of  warm,  though  artless  commendation,  as  he 
saw  Johnaten  receiving  the  hat  and  sword,  which,  as  military  tro- 
phies, he  had  laid  upon  the  coffin,  with  a flood  of  tears. 

When  the  church-yard  was  cleared,  he  stepped  across  the  broken 
wall  to  the  silent  mansion  of  Fitzalan ; the  scene  was  wild  and  dreary, 
and  a lowering  evening  seemed  in  unison  with  the  sad  objects  around. 
Lord  Mortimer  was  sunk  in  the  deepest  despondence ; he  felt  awfully 
convinced  of  the  instability  of  human  attainments,  and  the  vanity  of 
human  pursuits,  not  only  from  the  ceremony  he  had  just  witnessed, 
but  his  own  situation ; the  fond  hopes  of  his  heart,  the  gay  expecta- 
tions of  his  youth,  and  the  hilarity  of  his  soul  were  blasted — never,  he 
feared,  to  revive.  Virtue  rank,  and  fortune,  advantages  so  highly 
prized  by  mankind,  were  unable  to  give  him  comfort,  to  remove  the 
malady  of  his  heart,  to  administer  one  obvious  antidote  to  a mind 
diseased. 

‘‘  Peace  to  thy  shade,  thou  unfortunate  soldier,”  exclaimed  he,  after 
standing  some  time  by  the  grave  with  folded  arms;  “peace  to  thy 
shade ! peace  which  shall  reward  thee  for  a life  of  toil  and  trouble. 
Happy  should  I have  deemed  myself,  had  it  been  my  lot  to  have 
lightened  thy  grief,  or  cheered  thy  closing  hours;  but  those  who 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


35? 


were  dearer  to  tliee  than  existence  I may  yet  serve,  and  thus  make 
the  only  atonement  now  in  my  power  for  the  injustice  I fear  was 
done  thee  f thy  Amanda  and  thy  gallant  son  shall  be  my  care,  and 
his  path,  I trust,  it  will  he  in  my  power  to  smooth  through  life.” 

A tear  fell  from  Lord  Mortimer  upon  the  grave,  and  he  turned 
mournfully  from  it  towards  Castle  Oarberry.  Here  Johnaten  was 
arrived  before  him,  and  had  already  a large  fire  lighted  in  the 
dressing-room,  poor  Amanda,  on  coming  to  the  castle,  had  chosen 
for  herself.  Johnaten  fixed  on  this  for  Lord  Mortimer,  as  the  par- 
lours had  been  shut  up  ever  since  Captain  Fitzalan’s  departure,  and 
could  not  be  put  in  order  till  the  next  day ; hut  it  was  the  worst 
place  Lord  Mortimer  could  have  entered,  as  not  only  itself,  but  every 
thing  in  it  reminded  him  of  Amanda,  and  the  grief  it  excited  at  his 
first  entrance  was  so  violent,  as  to  alarm,  not  only  his  man  who  was 
spreading  a table  with  refreshments,  but  Johnaten,  who  was  assisting 
him.  He  soon  checked  it,  however;  hut  when  he  again  looked 
round  the  room,  and  beheld  it  ornamented  by  works  done  by 
Amanda,  he  could  scarcely  prevent  another  hurst  of  grief  as  violent 
as  the  first. 

He  now  learned  Amanda’s  residence,  and  so  great  was  his  impa- 
tience to  see  her,  that,  apprehensive  the  convent  would  soon  he 
closed,  he  set  off,  fatigued  as  he  was,  without  taking  any  refresh- 
ment. 

He  intended  to  ask  for  one  of  the  ladies  of  St.  Catharine’s,  and 
entreat  her,  if  Amanda  was  then  in  a situation  to  he  seen,  to 
announce  his  arrival  to  her;  hut,  after  rapping  repeatedly  with  a 
rattan  against  the  door,  the  only  person  who  appeared  to  him  was  a 
servant  girl.  From  her  he  learned  that  tie  ladies  were  all  in  the 
chapel,  and  that  Miss  Fitzalan  was  in  the  prioress’  apartment.  He 
asked,  “Was  she  too  ill  to  he  seen?”  The  girl  replied  “Ho;”  foi 
having  only  entered  the  room  to  leave  the  kettle  in  it,  at  a time  when 
Amanda  was  composed,  she  imagined  she  was  very  well. 

Lord  Mortimer  then  told  her  his  name,  and  desired  her  to  go  up  to 
Miss  Fitzalan  and  inquire  whether  she  would  see  him.  The  girl 
attempted  not  to  move ; she  was  in  reality  so  struck  of  a heap,  by 
hearing  that  she  had  been  talking  with  a lord,  that  she  knew  not 
whether  she  was  standing  on  her  head  or  her  heels.  Lord  Mortimer 
imputing  her  silence  to  disinclination  to  comply  with  his  request,  put 
a guinea  into  her  hand,  and  entreated  her  to  bo  expeditious.  This 


854 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


restored  her  to  animation ; but  ere  she  reached  the  room  she  forgot, 
his  title,  and  being  ashamed  to  deliver  a blundering  message  to  Miss 
Fitzalan,  or  to  appear  stupid  to  Lord  Mortimer,  she  returned  to  him, 
pretending  that  she  had  delivered  his  message,  and  that  he  might  go 
up.  She  showed  him  the  door,  and  when  he  entered  he  imputed  the 
silence  of  Amanda,  and  her  not  moving,  to  the.  effecte  of  her  grief. 
He  advanced  to  the  couch,  and  was  not  a little  shocked  on  seeing  her 
eyes  closed,  concluding  from  this  that  she  had  fainted ; but  her  easy 
respiration  soon  convinced  him  that  Uiis  was  a mistake,  and  he 
immediately  concluded  that  the  girl  had  deceived  him.  He  leaned 
over  her  till  she  began  to  stir,  and  then  retreated  behind  her,  lest  his 
presence,  on  her  first  awaking,  should  alarm  her. 

What  took  place  in  the  interview  between  them  has  already  been 
related.  Notwithstanding  appearances  were  so  much  against  her, 
and  no  explanation  had  ensued  relative  to  them,  from  the  moment 
she  asserted  her  innocence  with  solemnity,  he  could  no  longer  doubt 
it,  and  yielding  at  once  to  his  conviction,  to  his  love,  to  his  pity  for 
her,  he  again  renewed  his  overtures  for  a union.  Hearing  of  the 
stratagems  laid  for  her  destruction,  the  dangers  she  had  escaped,  the 
distresses  she  had  experienced,  made  him  more  anxious  than  ever 
for  completing  it ; that  by  his  constant  protection  he  might  secure 
her  from  similar  trials,  and  by  his  tenderness  and  care,  restore  her  to 
health,  peace,  and  happiness.  He  longed  for  the  period  of  her  tri- 
umphing over  the  perfidious  marchioness  and  the  detestable  Lady 
Euphrasia,  by  being  raised  to  that  station  they  had  so  long  attempted 
to  prevent  her  attaining,  and  thus  proving  to  them  that  virtue, 
sooner  or  later,  will  counteract  the  designs  of  vice.  He  felt  a degree 
of  rapture  at  the  idea  of  being  no  longer  obliged  to  regret  the  ardent, 
the  unabated  affection  he  felt  for  her. 

His  transports  were  somewhat  checked  when  she  solemnly  declared 
a union  between  them  impossible,  and  forbade  his  seeing  her  again. 
He  was  piqued  by  the  steadiness  with  which  she  repeated  this  reso- 
lution, but  her  present  weak  state  prevented  his  betraying  any  resent- 
ment, and  he  fiattered  himself  he  would  be  able  to  conquer  her 
obstinacy ; he  could  not  now  indeed  despair  of  any  event  after  the 
unexpected  restoration  of  Amanda  to  his  esteem,  and  the  revival  of 
those  hopes  of  felicity,  which  in  the  certainty  of  having  lost  her  had 
faded  away. 

He  returned,  as  Johnatcn  said,  an  altered  man  to  the  castle ; he  no 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


859 


longer  experienced  horror  at  entering  the  dressing  room,  which  dis- 
played so  many  vestiges  of  his  Amanda’s  taste. 

He  resolved  on  an  immediate  union  as  the  surest  proof  he  could 
give  of  his  perfect  confidence  in  her  sincerity,  not  allowing  himself 
to  suppose  she  would  continue  firm  in  the  resolution  she  had  recently 
avowed  to  him.  He  then  intended  setting  off  for  London,  and  spar- 
ing neither  time,  trouble,  nor  expense,  to  obtain  from  the  inferior 
agents  in  the  plot  laid  against  her,  a full  avowal  of  the  part  they  had 
themselves  acted  in  it,  and  all  they  knew  relative  to  those  performed 
oy  ctli^rs.  This  was  not  designed  for  his  own  satisfaction;  he 
wanted  no  confirmation  of  what  Amanda  had  asserted,  as  his  meaning 
to  marry  her  immediately  demonstrated ; it  was  to  cover  with  confu- 
sion those  who  had  meditated  her  destruction,  and  add  to  the  horrors 
they  would  experience  when  they  found  her  emerging  from  obscurity, 
not  as  Miss  Fitzalan,  but  Lady  Mortimer.  Such  proofs  of  her  inno- 
cence would  also  prevent  malice  from  saying  he  was  a dupe  of 
art,  and  he  was  convinced,  for  both  their  sakes,  it  was  requisite  to 
procure  them ; he  would  then  avow  his  marriage,  return  for  his  wife, 
introduce  her  to  his  friends,  and,  if  his  father  kept  up  any  resentment 
against  them  longer  than  he  expected,  he  knew,  in  Lady  Martha 
Dormer’s  house,  and  at  Tudor  Hall,  he  would  find  not  only  an  eligible 
but  pleasant  residence.  Those  delightful  schemes  kept  him  awake 
half  the  night,  and  when  he  fell  asleep  it  was  only  to  dream  of  hap- 
piness and  A.manda. 

In  the  morning,  notwithstanding  the  prohibition  he  had  received 
to  the  contrary,  he  went  to  inquire  how  she  was,  and  to  try  to  see 
her.  The  girl  who  had  answered  his  repeated  knocks  the  preceding 
evening,  appeared,  and  told  him  Miss  Fitzalan  was  very  bad. — He 
began  to  think  that  this  must  be  a pretext  to  avoid  seeing  him,  and 
to  come  at  the  truth,  was  slipping  a bribe  into  her  hand,  when  sister 
Mary,  who  had  been  watching  them  from  an  adjoining  room, 
appeared  and  stopped  this  measure.  She  repeated  what  the  girl  had 
just  said,  and,  in  addition  to  it,  declared  that,  even  if  Miss  Fitzalan 
was  up,  she  would  not  see  him,  and  that  he  must  come  no  more  to 
St,  Catharine’s,  as  both  Miss  Fitzalan  and  the  prioress  would  resent 
such  conduct  exceedingly,  and  that,  if  he  wanted  to  inquire  after  the 
health  of  the  former,  he  might  easily  send  a servant,  and  it  would  be 
much  better  dene  than  to  come  fi-isking  over  there  every  moment. 


856 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Lord  Mortimer  was  seriously  displeased  with  this  unceremonious 
speech.  ‘‘So  I suppose,”  cried  he,  “ you  want  to  make  a real  nun  of 
Miss  Fitzalan,  and  to  keep  her  from  all  conversation.” 

“And  a happy  creature  she  would  be  were  she  to  become  one  of 
us,”  replied  sister  Mary;  “and  as  to  keeping  her  from  conversation, 
she  might  have  as  much  as  she  pleased  with  any  one.  Indeed  I 
believe  the  poor  thing  likes  you  well  enough,  the  more’s  her  misfor- 
tune for  doing  so.” 

“ I thank  you,  madam,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer ; “ I suppose  it  one 
of  your  vows  to  speak  truth ; if  so,  I must  acknowledge  yon  keep  it 
religiously.” 

“ I have  just  heard  her,”  proceeded  sister  Mary,  without  minding 
what  she  said.  “ tell  the  prioress  a long  story  about  you  and  herself, 
by  which  I find  it  was  her  father’s  desire  she  should  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  you,  and  I dare  say  the  poor  gentleman  had  good 
reasons  for  doing  so.  I beg,  my  lord,  you  will  come  no  more  here, 
and,  indeed,  I think  it  was  a shame  for  you  to  give  money  to  the 
simpleton  who  answered  you.  Why,  it  was  enough  to  turn  the  girl’s 
head,  and  set  her  mad  after  one  fallal  or  other.” 

Lord  Mortimer  could  not  depart  without  an  effort  to  win  sister 
Mary  over  to  his  favour,  and  engage  her  to  try  and  persuade  Miss  Fitz- 
alan  to  permit  his  visits ; but  she  was  inflexible.  He  then  entreated 
to  know  if  Amanda  was  so  ill  as  to  be  unable  to  rise.  She  assured 
him  she  was ; and  as  some  little  consolation  to  the  distress  she  per- 
ceived this  assurance  gave  him,  said  he  might  send  when  he  pleased 
to  inquire  after  her  health,  and  she  would  take  care  to  answer  the 
messenger  herself. 

Lord  Mort’mer  began  now  to  be  seriously  alarmed^  lest  Captain  Fitz- 
alan had  prevailed  on  his  daughter  to  make  a solemn  renunciation  of 
him : if  this  was  the  case,  he  knew  nothing  could  prevail  on  her  to  break 
her  promise.  lie  was  half  distracted  with  doubt  and  anxiety,  which 
were  scarcely  supportable,  when  he  reflected  that  they  could  not  for 
some  time  be  satisfied,  since,  even  if  he  wrote  to  her  for  that  pur- 
pose, she  could  not  at  present  be  able  to  answer  his  letter ; again  ho 
felt  convinced  of  the  instability  of  earthly  happiness,  and  the  close 
connexion  there  has  ever  been  between  pleasure  and  pain. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


35ir 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

“ Thy  presence  only  His  can  make  me  blsss’d 
Ileal  my  unquiet  mind,  and  tune  my  souL” 

Ot WAT’S  0a?aA3» 

Teh  iatigue,  distress,  and  agitation  of  Amanda  could  no  longer  be 
struggled  with ; she  sunk  beneath  their  violence,  and  for  a week  was 
confined  te  her  bed  by  the  fever,  which  seized  her  in  England,  and 
had  ever  since  lurked  in  her  veins.  The  whole  sisterhood,  who  took 
it  in  turn  to  attend  her,  vied  with  each  other  in  kindness  and  care  to 
the  poor  invalid.  Their  efforts  for  her  recovery  were  aided  by  a skil- 
ful physician  from  the  next  town,  who  called  without  being  sent  for 
at  the  convent.  He  said  he  had  known  Captain  Fitzalan,  and  that, 
hearing  that  Miss  Fitzalan  was  indisposed,  he  had  come  in  hopes  he 
might  be  of  service  to  the  daughter  of  a man  he  so  much  esteemed. 
He  would  accept  of  no  fee,  and  the  prioress,  who  was  a Avoman  of 
sagacity,  suspected,  as  well  as  Amanda,  that  he  came  by  the  direction 
of  Lord  Mortimer : nor  were  they  mistaken,  for,  distracted  with 
apprehensions  about  her,  he  had  taken  this  method  of  lightening  his 
fears,  flattering  himself,  by  the  excellent  advice  he  had  procured,  her 
recovery  would  be  much  expedited,  and  of  course  his  suspense  at  least 
terminated.  The  doctor  did  not  withdraw  his  visits  when  Amanda 
was  able  to  rise : he  attended  her  punctually,  and  often  paid  her  long 
visits,  which  were  of  infinite  service  to  her  spirits,  as  he  Avas  a man 
of  much  information  and  cheerfulness.  In  a feAV  days  she  was 
removed  from  her  chamber  into  a pleasant  room  below  stairs,  which 
opened  into  the  garden,  where,  leaning  on  the  friendly  doctor’s  arm, 
or  one  of  the  nuns,  she  Avalked  at  different  times  a few  minutes  each 
day.  Lord  Mortimer,  on  hearing  this,  thought  he  might  now  solicit 
an  intervieAV,  and  accordingly  wrote  for  that  purpose. 

“TO  MISS  FITZALAN. 

“Lord  Mortimer  presents  his  compliments  to  Miss  Fitzalan,  flatters  himself  she  will 
ftllow  him  personally  to  express  the  sincere  happiness  her  restoration  to  health  has  afforded 
him.  He  cannot  think  she  will  refuse  him  so  reasonable  a request ; he  is  almost  convinced 
would  not  hesitate  a mon^nt  in  granting  it,  could  she  form  an  idea  of  the  ndsery  ho 


858 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


hag  ejq>erienced  on  her  account,  and  the  anxiety  he  feels,  and  miis  b continue  to  fed,  tSJ 
some  expressions  in  the  last  interview  are  explained. 

“ Castle  Garherry^  lUh  May  ’* 

This  letter  greatly  distressed  Amaiida.  She  had  hoped  the  pain  of 
again  l ejecting  his  visits  and  requests  would  have  been  spared  her. 
She  guessed  at  the  expression  he  alluded  to  in  his  letter ; they  were 
those  she  had  dropped  relative  to  the  promise  to  her  father,  and, 
from  the  impetuous  and  tender  feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer,  she  easily 
conceived  the  agony  he  would  experience  when  he  found  this  promise 
inviolable. — She  felt  more  for  his  distress  than  her  own ; her  heart, 
seasoned  in  the  school  of  adversity,  could  bear  its  sorrows  with  calm- 
ness ; but  this  was  not  his  case,  and  she  paid  the  tribute  of  tears  to  a 
love  so  fervent,  so  faithful,  and  so  hopeless. 

She  then  requested  sister  Mary,  to  acquaint  his  messenger  that  she 
received  no  visits ; that,  as  she  was  tolerably  recovered,  she  entreated 
his  lordship  would  not  take  the  trouble  of  continuing  his  inquiries 
about  her  health,  or  to  send  her  any  more  written  messages,  as  she 
was  unable  to  answer  them.  The  prioress  who  was  present  when  she 
received  the  letter,  commended  her  exceedingly  for  the  fortitude  and 
discretion  she  had  manifested.  Amanda  had  deemed  it  necessary  to 
inform  her,  after  the  conversation  she  heard  between  her  and  Lord 
Mortimer,  of  the  terms  on  which  they  stood  with  each  other,  and  the 
prioress,  who  doubted  whether  his  lordship  was  in  reality  as  honoura- 
ble as  he  professed  himself,  thought  Amanda  on  the  sure  side  in 
declining  his  visits. 

The  next  morning  the  doctor  called  as  usual..  He  told  Amanda  ho 
had  brought  her  an  entertaining  book,  for  no  such  thing  could  be  pro- 
cured at  St.  Catharine’s ; and,  as  she  had  expressed  her  regret  at  this, 
from  the  time  she  had  been  able  to  read,  he  had  supplied  her  from 
his  library,  which  was  extensive  and  well  chosen. 

He  did  not  present  it  to  her  till  he  was  retiring,  and  then  said, 
with  a significant  smile,  she  would  find  it  contained  something  wor- 
thy of  her  particular  attention.  Amanda  was  alone,  and  immediately 
opened  it.  Great  was  her  astonishment  when  a letter  dropped  from 
it  into  her  lap  ! She  snatched  it  up,  and  perceiving  the  direction  in 
Lord  Mortimer’s  hand  she  hesitated  whether  she  should  open  a letter 
conveyed  in  this  manner ; but  to  return  it  unopened  was  surely  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


n59 


Blight  Lord  Mortimer  merited  not,  and  she  broke  the  seal  with  a 
trembling  liand  and  a palpitating  heart. 

*'  Unkind  Amanda  ^ 

“ To  compel  me  to  use  stratagems  in  Trriting  to  you,  and  to  destroy  the  delightful  hoi)es 
Which  had  sprung  in  my  soul  at  the  prospect  of  being  about  to  receive  a reward  for  my 
sufferings.  Am  I ever  to  be  involved  in  doubts  and  perplexity  on  your  account  ? Am  I 
ever  to  see  difficulty  succeeded  by  difficulty,  and  hope  by  disappointment? 

“ You  must  be  sensible  of  the  anxiety  I shall  feel  until  your  ambiguous  expressions  are 
fully  explained,  and  yet  you  refuse  this  explanation ! But  you  have  no  pity  for  my 
feelings.  Would  it  not  be  more  generous  in  you  to  permit  an  interview  than  to  keep  me 
in  suspense  ? To  know  the  worst  is  some  degree  of  ease  : besides,  I should  then  have  an 
opportunity  of  perhaps  convincing  you  that  virtue,  unlike  vice,  has  its  bounds,  and  that 
we  may  sometimes  carry  our  notions  of  honour  and  generosity  too  far,  and  sacrifice  our 
real  happiness  to  chimerical  ideas  of  them.  Surely  I shall  not  be  too  presumptuous  in 
saying,  that,  if  the  regard  Amanda  once  flattered  me  with,  is  undiminished,  she  will,  by 
rejecting  a union  with  me,  leave  me  not  the  only  sufferer. 

“ Oh  ! do  not,  my  dear  and  too  scrupulous  girl,  think  a moment  longer  of  persevering 
in  a resolution  so  prejudicial  to  your  welfare.  Your  situation  requires  particular  protec- 
tion; young,  innocent,  and  beautiful,  already  the  object  of  licentious  pursuit,  your  nearest 
relations  your  greatest  enemies,  your  brother,  from  his  unsettled  line  of  life,  unable  to  be 
near  you.  Oh  ! my  Amanda,  from  such  a situation  what  evils  may  accrue ! Avoid  them 
by  taking  refuge  in  his  arms,  who  will  be  to  you  a tender  friend,  and  a faithful  guardian ; 
before  such  evils,  the  obligations  for  keeping  a promise  to  rgect  me,  fade  away,  particu- 
larly when  the  motives  which  led  to  such  a promise  are  considered.  Captain  Fitzalan, 
hurt  by  the  unfortunate  letter  he  received  from  my  father,  extended  his  resentment  to  his 
son,  and  called  upon  yoii,  without  reflecting  on  the  consequences  of  such  a measure,  to 
give  me  up.  This  is  the  only  reason  I can  conceive  for  his  desiring  such  a promise,  and 
had  I but  arrived  while  he  could  have  listened  to  my  arguments,  I am  firmly  convinced, 
Instead  of  opposing,  he  would  have  sanctioned  our  union,  and  given  his  beloved  girl  to  a 
man,  who,  in  every  instance,  would  study  to  evince  his  gratitude  for  such  a gift,  and  to 
supply  Lis  loss. 

“ Eai^piness,  my  dear  Amanda,  is  in  long  arrears  with  us.  She  is  now  ready  to  make 
up  for  past  deficiencies,  if  it  is  not  our  own  faults : let  us  not  frighten  her  from  performing 
hfT  good  intentions,  but  hand  in  hand  receive  the  lovely  and  long  absent  guest  to  our 
bosoms. 

” H ou  will  not,  cannot,  must  not,  be  inflexible.  I shall  expect,  as  soon  as  you  read  this, 
h summons  to  St.  Catharine’s,  to  receive  the  ratification  of  my  hopes ; in  every  thing 
?iisp  acting  our  union  I will  be  guided  by  you,  except  delaying  it.  What  we  both  have 
»>^Pered  already  from  deceit,  makes  me  doubly  anxious  to  secure  you  mine,  lest  another 
scheme  should  be  formed  to  effect  our  separation. 

" Oh  ! Amanda,  the  faintest  prospects  of  calling  you  mine,  gives  to  my  heart  a felicity 
DO  language  can  express.  Refuse  not  being  mine  except  you  bring  me  an  addition  of 
fortune.  Already  rich  in  every  virtue,  I shall,  in  obtaining  you,  obtain  a treasure,  which 
the  wealthiest,  the  proudest,  and  the  vainest  of  the  sons  of  men  may  envy  me  the  posses- 
eiiOn  of,  and  which  the  good,  the  sensible,  and  the  elegant,  must  esteem  the  kindest  gift 
b^aoigent  Heaven  could  bestow  on  me.  Banish  all  uneasy  doubts  and  scruples,  my 
iLiAanda,  from  your  mind,  nor  think  a promise  wliich  was  demanded  without  reflecting  on 


SCO 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


the  consequences  that  must  attend  it,  can  be  binding.  The  ingenuous  soul  of  ycuT  father 
w^o;iId  have  cancelled  it  in  a moment,  had  those  consequences  been  represented  to  him, 
and  now,  when  our  own  reason  convinces  us  of  them,  I make  no  doubt,  if  departed  souls 
are  permitted  to  view  the  transactions  of  this  world,  his  spirit  would  behold  our  union 
with  approbation.  Yes,  my  Amanda,  I repeat  your  father’s  approving  spirit  will  smile 
upon  an  act  which  gives  to  his  lovely  and  beloved  orphan  a faithful  friend,  and  steady 
pj  otector,  in  her  adoring  Moktimee, 

“ Castle  Carherry^  11th  May?' 

This  letter  deeply  affected  the  sensibility,  but  could  not  shake  tlie 
resolution  of  Amanda.  She  would  not  have  answered  it,  as  she 
considered  any  correspondence  an  infringement  on  the  promises  she 
had  given  her  father  to  decline  any  further  intimacy  with  him  : but, 
from  the  warmth  and  agitation  displayed  in  his  letter,  it  was  evident 
to  her  that  if  he  did  not  receive  an  immediate  answer  to  it,  he  would 
come  to  St.  Catharine’s,  and  insist  on  seeing  her : and  she  felt  assured, 
that  she  would  much  better  deliver  her  sentiments  upon  paper  than 
to  him.  She  accordingly  wrote  as  follows : 

“to  lord  MORTIMER. 

“My  Lord, 

“You  cannot  change  my  resolution.  Surely,  when  I solemnly  declare  to  you  it  13 
unalterable,  you  will  spare  me  any  further  importunity  on  so  painful  a subject.  In  vain, 
my  Lord,  would  you,  by  sophistry,  cloaked  with  tenderness  for  that  purpose,  try  to 
Influence  me.  The  arguments  you  have  made  use  of,  I am  convinced,  you  never  would 
have  adopted,  had  you  not  been  mistaken  in  regard  to  those  motives  which  prompted  my 
father  to  ask  a promise  from  me  of  declining  any  farther  connexion  with  you.  It  was  not 
from  resentment,  my  lord : no,  his  death  was  then  fast  approaching,  and  he,  in  charity  for 
all  mankind,  forgave  those  who  had  wounded  him  by  unjust  reproach  and  accusation.  It 
was  a proper  respect  for  his  own  character,  and  not  resentment,  which  influenced  his 
tonduct ; as  he  was  convinced,  if  I consented  to  an  alliance  with  you,  Lord  Cherbury 
would  be  confirmed  in  all  the  suspicions  he  entertained  of  his  having  entangled  you  with 
me,  and  consequently  load  his  memory  with  contempt.  Tenderness,  also,  for  me  ac  tuated 
him.  He  was  acquainted  with  the  proud  heart  of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  knew  that  if,  poor 
and  reduced  as  I was,  I entered  his  family,  I should  be  considered  and  treated  as  a mean 
intruder.  So  thoroughly  am  I convinced  that  he  did  not  err  in  this  idea,  that  whenever 
reason  is  predominant  in  my  mind,  I think  even  if  a promise  did  not  exist  for  such  a 
purpose,  I should  decline  your  addresses ; for,  though  I could  submit  with  cheerfulness  to 
many  inconveniences  for  your  sake,  I never  could  support  indignities.  We  must  part,  my 
lord.  Providence  has  appointed  different  paths  for  us  to  pursue  in  life : yours  smooth  and 
flowery,  if  by  such  regrets  you  do  not  frustrate  the  intention  of  the  benevolent  donor: 
mixe  rough  and  thorny.  But  both,  though  so  different,  will  lead  to  the  same  ,51  al,  where 
we  shall  again  meet  to  be  no  more  separated. 

“Let  not  your  lordship  deem  me  either  unkind  or  ungrateful;  my  heart  disavows  the 
justice  of  such  accusations,  and  is  but  too  sensible  of  your  tenderness  an  l generosity* 
Yes,  my  lord,  I wdl  confess,  that  no  pangs  con  be  more  pungent  than  the  ones  whlcl  now 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


3G1 


reni  it,  at  bjeing  obliged  to  act  against  its  feelings  ; but  the  greater  the  sacrifice,  tho 
greater  the  merit  of  submitting  to  it,  and  a ray  of  self-approbation  is,  perhaps,  the  only 
sunshine  of  the  soul  which  will  brighten  my  future  days. 

“Never,  my  lord,  should  I enjoy  this,  if  my  promise  to  my  father  was  violated.  There 
Is  but  one  circumstance  which  could  set  it  aside,  that  is,  having  a fortune  that  even  Lord 
Cherbury  might  deem  equivalent  to  your  own  to  bring  you : for  then  my  father  has  often 
said  he  would  approve  our  union.  But  this  is  amongst  the  improbabilities  of  this  life,  and 
we  must  endeavour  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  destiny  which  separates  us. 

“ 1 hope  your  lordship  will  not  attempt  to  see  me  again.  You  must  be  sensible  that  your 
visits  would  be  highly  injurious  to  me.  Even  the  holy  and  solitary  asylum  which  I have 
found,  would  not  protect  me  from  the  malice  whiclv  has  already  been  so  busy  with  my 
peace  and  fame.  Alas!  I now  need  the  utmost  vigilance;  deprived  as  I am  of  those  cn 
whom  I had  claims  of  protection,  it  behoves  me  to  exert  the  utmost  circumspection  in  my 
conduct.  lie  in  whom  I expected  to  have  found  a guardian,  Oscar,  my  dear  unfortunate 
brother,  is  gone  I know  not  whither,  persecuted  and  afflicted  by  the  monster  who  has  been 
such  a source  of  misery  to  me.  Oh ! my  lord  when  I think  what  his  sufferings  may  now 
be,  my  heart  sinks  within  me. — Oh  ! had  I been  the  only  sufferer,  I should  not  have  felt  so 
great  a degree  of  agony  as  I now  endure.  But  I will  not  despair  about  my  dear  Oscar* 
the  Providence  which  has  been  so  kind  to  his  sister,  which  so  unexpectedly  raised  her 
friends,  at  the  moment  she  deemed  herself  deprived  of  all  earthly  comfort,  may  to  him 
have  been  equally  merciful.  I have  trespassed  a-long  time  upon  your  lordship’s  attention, 
but  I wished  to  be  explicit,  to  avoid  the  necessity  of  any  further  correspondence  between 
us.  You  now  know  my  resolves;  you  also  know  my  feelings ; in  pity  to  them  spare  me 
any  further  conflicts.  May  the  tranquil  happiness  you  so  truly  deserve  soon  j^e  yours  I 
Do  not,  my  lord,  because  disappointed  in  one  wish,  lose  your  sense  of  the  many  valuable 
blessings  with  which  you  are  surrounded ; in  fulfilling  the  claims  which  your  friends,  your 
country  have  upon  you,  you  will  show  how  truly  you  merit  those  blessings,  and  banish  all 
useless  regrets  from  your  heart.  Adieu,  my  lord  ; suffer  no  uneasiness  on  my  account : if 
Heaven  prolong  my  life,  I have  no  doubt  but  I shall  find  a little  comfortable  shelter  from 
the  world  ; where,  conscious  I have  acted  according  to  the  principles  of  right,  I shall  enjoy 
the  serenity  which  ever  attends  self-approbation  ; a serenity  which  no  changes  or  chances 
In  this  life  will,  I trust,  ever  wrest  from 

“ Amanda  Fitzalan. 

May  \Wi.  St.  Catharine* 8.'^ 

She  despatched  this  by  an  old  man,  who  was  employed  in  the 
garden  at  St.  Catharine’s ; but  her  spirits  were  so  much  affected  by 
writing  it,  she  was  obliged  to  go  up  and  lie  on  the  bed.  She  consid- 
ered herself  as  having  taken  a final  adieu  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  the 
idea  was  too  painful  to  be  supported  with  fortitude ; tender  and  fer- 
vent as  his  attachment  was  now  to  her,  she  believed  the  hurry  and 
bustle  of  the  world  in  which  he  must  be  engaged  would  soon  eradi- 
cate it ; a transfer  of  his  affections  to  one  equal  to  himself  in  rank  and 
fortune  was  a probable  event,  and  of  course  a total  expulsion  of  her 
from  his  memory  would  follow ; a deadly  coldness  stole  upon  her 
heart  at  the  idea  of  being  forgotten  by  him,  and  produced  a flood  of 

16 


36^  CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY, 

tears.  She  then  began  to  accuse  herself  of  inconsistency.  She  had 
often  thought,  if  Lord  Mortimer  was  restored  to  happiness,  she  should 
feel  more  tranquillity ; and  now,  when  the  means  of  elfecting  this 
restoration  occurred,  she  trembled  and  lamented  as  if  it  would 
increase  her  misery.  “ I am  selfish,”  said  she  to  herself,  “ in  desiring 
the  prolongation  of  an  affection  which  must  ever  be  hopeless : I am 
weak,  in  regretting  the  probability  of  its  transfer,  as  I can  never 
return  it. 

To  conquer  those  feelings,  she  found  she  must  banish  Lord  Morti- 
mer from  her  thoughts.  Except  she  succeeded  in  some  degree  in  this, 
she  felt  she  never  should  be  able  to  exert  the  fortitude  lier  present 
situation  demanded.  She  now  saw  a probability  of  her  existence 
being  prolonged,  and  the  bread  of  idleness  or  dependence  could  never 
be  sweet  to  Amanda  Fitzalan. 

She  had  lain  about  an  hour  on  the  bed,  and  was  about  rising,  and 
returning  to  the  parlour,  when  sister  Mary  entered  the  chamber,  and 
delivered  her  a letter.  Ere  Amanda  looked  at  the  superscription,  her 
agitated  heart  foretold  her  whom  it  came  from.  She  was  not  mista- 
ken in  her  conjecture ; but  as  she  held  it  in  her  hand,  she  hesitated 
whether  she  .should  open  it  ormot.  “Yet,”  said  she  to  herself,  “ it 
can  be  no  great  harm  ; he  cannot,  after  what  I have  declared,  suppose 
my  resolution  to  be  shaken.  He  writes  to  assure  me  of  his  perfect 
acquiescence  to  it.  Sister  Mary  left  her  at  the  instant  her  delibera- 
tions ended,  by  opening  the  letter. 


**  TO  MISS  FlTZALAIf. 

“ Inexorable  Amanda  I But  I will  spare  both  you  and  myself  the  pain  of  further  impor- 
tunity. All  I now  request  is,  that  for  three  months  longer  at  least  you  will  continue  at  St. 
^Catharine’s,  or,  that  if  you  find  a much  longer  residence  there  unpleasant,  you  will,  on 
quitting  it,  leave  directions  where  to  be  found.  Ere  half  the  above-mentioned  period  be 
elapsed,  I trust,  I shall  be  able  satisfactory  to  account  for  such  a request.  I am  quitting 
Castle  Carberry  immediately.  I shall  leave  it  with  a degree  of  tranquillity  that  would 
perhaps  surprise  you,  after  what  has  so  lately  passed,  if  in  this  one  instance  you  will 
oblige  your 

“ Ever  Faithful 

“ Mortimeb.’* 

Ibis  laconic  letter  astonished  Amanda.  By  its  style  it  was  evident 
Lord  Mortimer  had  recovered  his  cheerfulness  ; recovered  it  not  frem 
ft  determination  of  giving  her  up,  but  from  a hope  of  their  again 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  363 

meeting,  us  they  could  both  wish.  A sudden  transport  rushed  upon 
her  heart  at  such  an  idea,  but  quickly  died  away  when  she  reflected 
it  was  almost  beyond  the  possibility  of  things  to  bring  about  a pleas- 
ing interview  between  them. — She  knew  Lord  Mortimer  had  a 
Banguiiie  temper,  and  though  it  might  mislead  him,  she  resolved  it 
should  not  mislead  her.  She  could  not  form  the  most  distant  surmise 
of  what  he  had  now  in  agitation ; but  whatever  it  was,  she  firmly 
believed  it  would  end  in  disappointment. — To  refuse  every  request  of 
his  was  painful ; but  propriety  demanded  she  should  not  accede  to 
the  last ; for  one  step,  she  wisely  considered,  from  the  Tne  of  pru- 
dence she  had  marked  out  for  herself  to  take,  might  x>hmge  her  in 
difficulties  from  which  she  would  find  it  impossible  to  extricate  herself. 
With  an  unsteady  hand  she  returned  the  following  answer. 

“ My  Lord  : 

“I  cannot  comply  with  your  request:  you  may,  if  you  please,  repeat  inexorable 
Amanda  : I had  rather  honour  the  imputation  of  obstinacy  than  imprudence,  and  think 
it  much  better  to  meet  your  accusation  than  deserve  my  own.  How  long  I may  reside  at 
St.  Catharine’s  is  to  myself  unknown ; when  I quit  it,  I certainly  will  not  promise  to  leave 
any  directions  where  you  may  find  me. 

“ The  obstacles  which  have  rendered  our  separation  necessary,  are,  I am  convinced, 
beyond  your  lordship’s  power  to  conquer;  except  they  were  removed,  any  farther  inter- 
views between  us  would  be  foolish  and  imprudent  in  the  extreme.  I also  rejoice  to  hear 
you  are  leaving  the  castle,  but  am  not  surprised  to  hear  of  your  tranquillity.  From  your 
good  sense,  I expected  you  would  make  exertions  against  useless  regrets,  and  those  exer- 
tions I knew  would  be  attended  with  success;  but,  as  some  return  for  the  sincere  pleasure 
I feel  for  your  restoration  to  tranquillity,  seek  not  to  disturb  again  that  of 

“ Amanda  Fitzalan. 

Vlth.  JSt.  Caiharine'sy 

Scarcely  had  she  sealed  this  letter  when  she  was  called  to  dinner ; 
but  though  she  obeyed  tlie  summons,  she  could  not  eat.  The  exer- 
tions her  writing  to  Lord  Mortimer  required,  and  the  agitation  his 
letter  had  thrown  her  into,  quite  exhausted  her  strength  and  spirits. 
The  nuns  withdrew  soon  after  dinner,  and  left  her  alone  with  the 
prioress.  In  a few  minutes  after  their  departure,  th^  old  gardei  er 
returned  from  Castle  Carberry,  where  he  had  been  delivering  her 
letter.  After  informing  her  he  had  put  it  safely  *ntc  his  lordship'ia 
nands,  he  added,  with  a look  which  seemed  to  indicate  a fear  lest  she 
should  be  distressed,  that  he  had  received  neithei  letter  nor  message 
from  him,  though  he  waited  a long  time  in  expectation  of  receiving 
either  one  or  the  other;  but  he  supposed,  he  said,  his  lordship  was  in 


S64 


children  op  the  abbey. 


too  great  a hurry  just  then  to  give  any  answer,  as  a chaise  and  four 
was  waiting  to  carry  him  to  Dublin. 

Amanda  burst  into  tears  as  the  man  retired  from  the  room.  She 
saw  she  had  written  to  Lord  Mortimer  for  the  last  time,  and  she 
couM  not  suppress  this  tribute  of  regret.  She  was  firmly  convinced, 
indeed,  she  should  behold  him  no  more.  The  idea  of  visiting  her, 
she  was  sure,  na}^,  she  hoped  he  would  relinquish,  when  he  found 
(wliich  she  supposed  would  soon  be  the  case)  the  schemes  or  hopes 
vvhich  now  buoyed  up  his  spirits  impossible  to  be  realized. 

The  prioress  sympathized  in  her  sorrow ; though  not  from  her  own 
experience,  yet  fiom  the  experience  of  others,  she  knew  hoAv  danger- 
,ous  and  bewitching  a creature  man  is,  and  how  difficult  it  is  to 
remove  the  chains  which  he  twines  around  the  female  heart;  to 
remove  those  which  lay  so  heavy  upon  the  delicate  and  susceptible 
heart  of  her  young  friend,  without  leaving  a corrosive  wound,  was 
her  sincere  wisli,  and  by  strengthening  her  resolution,  she  hoped  suc- 
cess would  crown  their  endeavours. 

Two  hours  were  elapsed  since  her  messenger’s  return  from  the 
castle,  when  sister  Mary  entered  the  room  with  a large  packet,  which 
she  put  into  Amanda’s  hands,  saying,  it  was  given  her  by  Lord  Mor- 
timer’s servant,  who  rode  oflf  the  moment  he  delivered  it. 

Sister  Mary  made  no  scruple  of  saying,  she  should  like  to  know 
what  such  a weighty  packet  contained. 

The  prioress  chid  her  in  a laughing  manner  for  her  curiosity,  and 
drew  her  into  the  garden,  to  give  Amanda  an  opportunity  of  examin- 
ing the  contents. 

She  was  surprised,  on  breaking  the  seal,  to  perceive  a very  hand- 
j-ome  pocket-book,  in  a blank  cover,  and  found,  unsealed,  a letter  to 
>-<iis  efiTect; 


“to  miss  fitzalan. 

“ I have  put  it  out  of  your  power  to  return  this,  by  departing  long  ere  you  receive  It. 
Purely,  if  you  have  the  laudable  pride  you  profess,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  use  the  con- 
sents of  the  pocket-buok,  as  the  only  ireans  of  avoiding  a weight  of  obligation  from 
♦trangers : though  discarded  as  a lover,  surely  I may  be  esteemed  as  a frieno ; and  with 
It  jh  a title  I will  be  contented  till  I can  lay  claim  to  a tenderer  one.  You  start  at  this 
jast  expression,  and  I have  no  doubt  you  will  call  me  a romantic  visionary,  for  entertain- 
ing hopes  which  you  have  so  positively  assured  me  can  never  be  realized ; but  ere  I r2sign 
them  I must  have  something  more  powerful  than  this  assurance,  my  sweet  Amanda,  to 
convince  me  of  their  fallacy.  I was  inexpressibly  shocked  this  morning  t''  i«arn,  by  your 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


8G5 


letter,  that  your  brother  had  met  \vith  misfortune.  My  blood  boils  with  indignation 
against  the  monster  who  has,  to  use  your  emphatical  expression,  been  such  a source  of 
misery  to  you  both.  I shall  make  it  my  particular  care  to  try  and  discover  the  place  to 
which  Mr.  Fitzalan  is  gone,  and  in  what  situation.  By  means  of  the  agents,  or  some  of 
the  oflELcers  belonging  to  the  regiment,  I flatter  myself  with  being  able  to  gain  some  intelli- 
gence of  him : I need  not  add,  that,  to  the  utmost  extent  of  my  power,  I will  serve  him. 
My  success  in  this  affair,  as  well  as  in  that  which  concerns  a much  dearer  being,  you  may  be 
convinced  you  shall  soon  hear.  Adieu,  my  Amanda.  I cannot  say,  like  Hamlet,  “ Go, 
get  ye  to  a nunnery;”  but  I can  say,  “Stay  there,  I charge  you.”  Seriously,  I could 
wish,  except  you  find  your  present  situation  very  unpleasant  and  inconvenient,  not  to 
change  it  for  a short  time.  I think,  for  a temporary  abode,  you  could  not  And  a more 
eligible  one,  and,  as  I shall  be  all  impatience  when  I return  to  Ireland  to  see  you,  a search 
after  you  would  be  truly  insupportable.  You  have  already  refused  to  inform  me  of  your 
determination  relative  to  this  matter;  surely  I may  venture  to  request  it  may  be  as  I 
wish,  when  I assure  you,  that  except  I can  see  you  in  a manner  pleasing  to  both,  I will 
never  force  into  your  presence  him,  who,  let  things  turn  out  as  they  may,  must  ever 
continue 


“Your  faithful 


“Mortimeb  ” 


“ Gracious  heaven!”  said  Amanda  to  herself,  “ what  can  he  mean? 
what  scheme  can  he  have  in  agitation  which  will  remove  the  obsta- 
cles to  our  union  ? He  here  seems  to  speak  of  a certainty  of  success. 
Oh ! grant  merciful  power!”  she  continued,  raising  her  meek  eyes  to 
heaven,  while  a rosy  blush  stole  upon  her  cheeks,  “ grant  that  indeed 
he  may  be  successful.  He  talks  of  returning  to  Ireland.  Still,”  pro- 
ceeded she,  reading  over  the  letter,  ‘‘requiring  something  more 
powerful  than  my  assurance  to  convince  him  of  the  fallacy  of  his 
hopes ; surely  Lord  Mortimer  would  not  he  so  cruel  as  to  raise 
expectations  in  my  bosom,  without  those  in  his  own  were  well 
founded.  Ho,  dear  Mortimer,  I will  not  call  you  a romantic 
visionary,  hut  the  most  amiable,  the  most  generous  of  men,  who,  for 
poor  Amanda  encounters  difficulties,  and  sacrifices  every  splendid 
expectation.”  She  rejoiced  at  the  intention  he  had  .declared  of 
seeking  out  Oscar.  She  looked  forward  either  to  a speedy  interview, 
or  speedy  intelligence  of  this  beloved  brother,  as  she  knew  Lord 
Mortimer  would  seek  him  with  the  persevering  spirit  of  benevolence, 
and  leave  no  means  untried  to  restore  him  to  her. 

She  now  examined  the  contents  of  the  pocket-hook ; it  contained  a 
number  of  small  bills,  to  the  amount  of  two  hundred  po  inds — a large  ^ 
present,  hut  one  so  delicately  presented,  that  even  her  ideas  of  pro- 
priety could  scarcely  raise  a scruple  against  her  accepting.  Tlie.y  did 


Sd6  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

I'. owe ver,  suggest  one:  uncertain  how  matters  v/ould  jet  terminate 
between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer,  she  was  unwilling  to  receive  any 
pecuniary  obligations  from  him ; hut,  when  she  reflected  on  his  noble 
and  feeling  heart,  she  knew  she  should  severely  wound  it  by  return- 
ing his  present:  she  therefore  resolved  on  keeping  it,  making  a kind 
of  compromise  with  her  feelings  about  the  matter,  by  determining 
that,  except  entitled  to  receive  them,  she  would  never  more  accept 
favours  of  this  nature  from  his  lordship. 

The  present  one  indeed  was  a most  seasonable  relief,  and  removed 
from  her  heart  a load  of  anxiety  which  had  weighed  on  it.  A.fter 
paying  her  father’s  funeral  expenses,  the  people  with  whom  he  lodged, 
and  the  apothecary  who  had  attended  him,  she  found  herself  mistress 
of  but  twenty  guineas  in  the  whole  world,  and  more  than  half  of  this 
she  considered  as  already  due  to  the  benevolent  sisters  of  St. 
Catharine’s,  who  were  ill  able  to  aflTord  any  additional  expense. 

She  had  resolved  to  force  them  to  accept  what  indeed  she  deemed 
a pcor  return  for  their  kindness  to  her,  and  she  then  intended  to  retire 
to  6. me  obscure  hovel  in  the  neighbourhood,  as  better  suited  to  the 
state  of  her  finances,  and  continue  there  till  her  health  was  sufficiently 
restored,  to  enable  her  to  make  exertions  for  her  livelihood;  but  she 
shuddered  at  the  idea  of  leaving  St.  Catharine’s  and  residing  among 
a set  of  boors  ; she  felt  sensations  something  similar  to  those  we  may 
suppose  a person  would  feel,  who  was  about  being  committed  to  a 
tempestuous  ocean,  without  any  means  of  security. 

Lord  Mortimer  had  prevented  the  necessity  which  had  prompted 
her  to  think  of  a removal,  and  she  now  resolved  to  reside  at  least  for 
the  time  he  had  men:ioned  in  the  convent,  during  which  she  supposed 
her  uncertainties  relative  to  him  would  be  over,  and  that,  if  it  was 
not  her  fate  to  be  his,  she  should,  by  the  perfect  re-establishment  oP 
her  health,  be  enablea  to  use  her  abilities  in  the  manner  her  situation 
required.  Tears  of  heartfelt  gratitude  and  sensibility  flowed  doAvn. 
her  cheeks  for  him  who  had  lightened  her  mind  of  the  care  Avhich  had 
BO  oppressed  it. 

She  at  length  recollected  the  prioress  had  retired  into  the  ga:.  den 
from  complaisance  to  her,  and  yet  continued  in  it,  waiting,  no  doubt, 
^to  be  summoned  back  by  her.  She  hastily  wiped  away  her  tears,  and 
folding  up  the  precious  letter,  which  was  bedewed  vAith  them, 
r<>paired  to  the  garden,  resolving  not  to  communicate  its  contents,  as 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


867 


die  divulgement  of  expectations  (considering  liow  liable  all  Human 
ones  are  to  be  disappointed)  she  ever  considered  a piece  of  folly. 

She  found  the  prioress  and  sister  Mary  seated  under  a broken  and 
ivy-covered  arch.  “ Jesu ! my  dear,”  said  the  latter,  I thought  you 
would  never  come  to  us.  Our  good  mother  has  been  keeping  me 
here  in  spite  of  my  teeth,  though  I told  her  the  sweet  cakes  I made 
for  tea  would  be  burned  by  this  time,  and  that,  supposing  you  were 
reading  a letter  from  Lord  Mortimer,  there  could  be  no  harm  in  my 
seeing  you.”  Amanda  relieved  the  impatient  Mary,  and  she  took  her 
seat. — The  prioress  cast  her  piercing  eyes  upon  her.  She  perceived 
she  had  been  weeping,  and  that  joy,  rather  than  sorrow  caused  her 
tears.  She  was  too  delicate  to  inquire  into  its  source,  but  she  took 
Amanda’s  hand,  and  gave  it  a pressure,  which  seemed  to  say,  “I  see. 
my  dear  child,  you  have  met  with  something  which  pleases  you,  and 
my  heart  sympathizes  as  much  in  your  happiness  as  in  your  grief.” 

Amanda  returned  the  affectionate  pressure  with  one  equally  tender, 
and  a starting  tear.  They  were  soon  called  by  sister  Mary  to  partake 
of  the  hot  cakes,  which  she  had  made  indeed  in  hopes  of  tempting 
Amanda  to  eat  after  her  bad  dinner;  the  whole  community  were 
assembled  at  tea,  when  the  doctor  entered  the  parlour.  Amanda 
blushed  and  looked  grave  at  his  first  entrance ; but  he  soon  rallied 
her  out  of  her  gravity,  and  when  the  prioress  and  the  nuns,  according 
to  custom,  had  withdrawn  to  evening  vespers,  he  said,  with  a signifi- 
cant smile,  “ he  feared  she  had  not  attended  as  much  as  he  wished 
she  should  to  the  contents  of  the  book  he  had  last  brought  her.” 
She  saw  by  his  manner  he  was  acquainted  with  her  situation  relative 
to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  therefore  replied  by  saying,  “ that  perhaps,  if 
he  knew  the  motives  which  influenced  her  conduct,  he  would  not 
think  her  wrong  in  disregarding  what  he  had  just  mentioned.” — She 
also  said  “ she  detested  all  kinds  of  stratagems,  and  was  really 
displeased  with  him  for  practising  one  upon  her.” 

‘‘  In  a good  cause,”  he  said,  “ he  should  never  hesitate  using  one. 
Lord  Mortimer  was  the  finest  young  fellow  he  had  ever  seen,  and  had 
won  his  favour  and  the  best  wishes  of  his  heart,  from  the  first  moment 
that  he  beheld  him.  He  made  me  contrive,”  continued  the  doctor, 
“ a story  to  gain  admission  to  your  ladyship,  and  when  I found  liim 
BO  dreadfully  anxious  about  you,  I gave  you  credit  (as  I had  then  no 
opportunity  of  judging  for  myself)  for  all  the  virtues  and  graces  he 


368 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ascribed  to  you,  and  wbicb  I have  since  perceived  you  to  possess. 
You  smile,' and  look  as  if  you  called  me  a flatterer;  seriously  I assure 
you  I am  not  one  : I really  think  jou  worthy  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and, 
I assure  you,  that  is  as  great  a compliment  as  could  he  paid  to  any 
woman.  His  mind  was  troubled  with  grief ; he  revealed  his  troubles 
and  perplexities  to  me,  and,  after  hearing  them,  no  good  Christian 
ever  prayed  more  devoutly  for  another,  than  I prayed  for  your 
recovery,  that  all  your  sorrows,  like  a novel,  might  terminate  in 
marriage.” 

‘•You  are  obliging  in  your  wishes,”  said  Amanda,  smiling. 

Faith,  I am  sincere  in  them,”  exclaimed  he,  ‘‘and  do  not  know 
when  I have  been  so  disconcerted  at  things  not  turning  out  smoothly 
between  you  and  his  lordship ; but  I will  not  despair : in  all  my  own 
troubles,  and  Heaven  has  given  me  my  share,  I ever  looked  to  the 
bright  side  of  things,  and  shall  always  do  so  for  my  friends.  I yet 
expect  to  see  you  settled  at  Castle  Oarberry,  and  to  be  appointed 
myself  physician-general  to  your  ladyship’s  household.”  The  mention 
of  ^n  event,  yet  so  uncertain,  greatly  agitated  Amanda;  she  blushed 
azd  turned  pale  alternately,  and  convinced  her  good-natured,  but 
loquacious  friend,  he  had  touched  a chord  which  could  not  bear  vibra* 
tion.  He  hastily  changed  the  discourse,  and,  as  soon  as  he  saw  her 
composed,  rose  to  take  his  leave.  Amanda  detained  him  for  a minute, 
to  try  and  prevail  on  him  to  take  a ten-guinea  note;  but  he  was 
inflexible,  and  said  with  some  archness,  “till  the  disorder  which 
preyed  upon  Lord  Mortimer’s  heart  was  in  some  degree  alleviated,  he 
would  receive  no  recompense  for  his  visits,  which  he  assured  Amanda, 
from  tine  +o  time,  he  should  continue  to  pay  her;  adding,  a certain 
rerson  had  enjoined  him  now  and  then  to  take  a peep  within  the  holy 
walls  of  St.  Catharine.” 

The  next  morning  Amanda  set  about  a temporary  arrangement  of 
her  affairs.  She  presented  thirty  guineas  to  the  sisterhood,  which, 
with  much  difficulty,  she  forced  them  to  accept,  though,  in  reality,  it 
was  ranch  required  by  them ; but  when  she  came  to  speak  of  paying 
for  a ccntlr.uance,  they  positively  declared  they  would  agree  to  no 
such  thing;  as  she  had  already  so  liberally  rewarded  them  for  any 
expens d they  might  have  incurred  on  her  account.  She  told  them, 
that  if  they  would  not  agree  to  be  paid  for  lodging  and  board,  she 
would  certainly  leave  them,  though  such  a step  was  contrary  to  hex 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


869 


inclination ; she  assured  them  also,  she  was  at  present  well  able  to 
pay. 

At  last  it  was  settled  she  should  give  them  at  the  rate  of  forty 
pounds  a year — a salary  they  thought  extremely  ample,  considering  ^ 
the  plain  manner  in  which  they  lived.  She  then  had  all  the  things 
which  belonged  to  her  father  and  herself  brought  to  the  convent,  and 
had  the  former,  with  whatever  she  did  not  immediately  want,  nailed  up 
in  a large  chest,  that  on  a short  notice  they  might  he  removed.  Her 
harp  and  guitar  she  had  in  her  distress  proposed  sending  back  to  the 
person  in  Dublin  from  whom  they  were  purchased,  to  sell  for  her ; but 
she  now  determined  to  keep  these  presents  of  her  beloved  father,  except 
again  urged  by  necessity  to  part  with  them.  She  had  a variety  of 
materials  for  painting  and  working,  and  proposed  employing  herself 
in  executing  pieces  in  each  way,  not  only  as  a means  of  amusing  her 
time,  but  as  a resource  on  an  evil  day : thus  wisely  making  use  of  the 
present  sunshine,  lest  another  storm  should  arise,  which  she  should 
not  be  so  well  able  to  struggle  against. 


OHAPTEK  XXXYII. 

In  struggling  with  misfortunes 
Lies  the  proof  of  virtue. — 

Shakespeare. 

The  turbulence  of  grief,  and  the  agitation  of  suspense,  gradual  y 
lessened  in  the  mind  of  Amanda,  and  were  succeeded  by  a soft  and 
pleasing  melancholy,  which  sprang  from  the  consciousness  of  having 
always  to  the  best  of  her  abilities,  performed  the  duties  imposed 
upon  her,  and  supported  her  misfortunes  with  placid  resignation. 
She  loved  to  think  of  her  father,  for  amidst  her  sighs  for  his  loss, 
were  mingled  the  delightful  ideas  of  having  ever  been  a source  of 
comfort  to  him,  and  she  believed,  if  departed  spirits  were  allowed  to 
rc/iew  this  world,  his  would  look  down  upon  her  with  deliglit  and 
approbation,  at  beholding  her  undeviating  in  the  path  he  marked  out 
for  her  to  take;  the  calm  derived  from  such  meditations  she  consid- 
ered as  a recompense  for  many  sorrows;  it  was  such,  indeed, 

10* 


8')  0 CHILDREN  OF  TIIE  ABCET. 

nothing  ea^  U^ly  gives,  or  can  destro}^,  and  what  tlie  good  must  evei 
expenenoe,  'olioagh  “amidst  the  wreck  of  matter  and  the  crusli  of 
worlds,” 

She  tiaed  to  prevent  liei  thoughts  from  wandering  to  Lord  Mortimer, 
as  the  surest  means  of  retaining  her  composure,  which  fled  whenever 
she  reflected  on  the  doubtful  balance  in  which  her  fate  yet  hung  con- 
cerning him. 

The  solitude  of  St.  Catharine’s  was  well  adapted  to  her  present 
situation  and  frame  of  mind.  She  Tvas  neither  teazed  with  imperti- 
nent or  unmeaning  ceremony,  but,  perfect  mistress  of  her  own  time 
and  actions,  read,  worked,  and  walked,  as  most  agreeable  to  herself. 
She  did  not  extend  her  walks  beyond  the  convent,  as  the  scenes 
around  .t  would  awaken  remembrances  she  had  not  sufficient  forti- 
tude to  bear ; but  the  space  it  covered  was  ample  enough  to  afford 
her  many  different  and  extensive  rambles ; and  of  a still  evening, 
when  nothing  but  the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  or  the  buzzing  of  the  surn- 
mer-flies,  was  to  be  heard,  she  loved  to  wander  through  the  solemn 
and  romantic  ruins,  sometimes  accompanied  by  a nun,  but  much 
oftener  alone. 

A fortnight  had  elapsed  in  this  manner,  since  Lord  Mortimer’s 
departure,  when  one  morning  a carriage  was  heard  driving  across  the 
common,  and  stopping  at  the  outer  gate  of  St.  Catharine’s ; Amanda, 
■who  was  sitting  at  work  in  the  parlour  with  the  prioress,  started  in  a 
universal  trepidation  at  the  sound ; it  may  be  easily  imagined  the  idea  of 
Lord  Mortimer  wus  uppermost  in  her  thoughts.  The  door  opened  in  a 
few  minutes,  and,  to  her  great  astomshment,  Mrs.  Kilcorban  and  her 
two  daughters  made  their  appearance. 

Agitation  and  surprise  prevented  Amir  la  from  speaking;  siie 
curtsied,  and  motioned  them  to  be  seated.  The  young  ladies  saluted 
her  with  an  icy  civility,  and  the  mother  treated  her  with  a rude 
familiarity,  which  she  thought  herseff  authorized  in  using  to  one  so 
reduced  in  her  circumstances  as  Amanda.  “Dear  me,”  cried  she, 
“you  can’t  chink,  child,  how  shocked  we  have  all  been  to  hear  of 
your  misfortunes  • we  only  returned  to  the  country  yesterday,  for  we 
have  been  in  town  die  whole  winter,  and  to  he  sure  a most  delightful 
winter  we  have  had  of  it,  such  halls,  such  routs,  such  racketings ; 
but,  as  I was  going  to  say,  as  soon  as  we  came  home,  I began, 
according  to  my  old  custoin.  to  inquire  after  all  my  neighbours  and  to 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


3Y1 


Le  sure,  the  very  first  thing  I heard  v/as  of  the  poor  captain’'^  death. 
Don’t  cry,  my  dear,  we  must  all  go  one  time  or  another ; those  are 
things  of  course,  as  the  doctor  says  in  his  sermon ; so  when  I heard 
of  your  father’s  death  and  your  distress,  I began  to  cast  about  in  my 
brain  some  plan  for  helping  you,  and  at  last  I hit  upon  one,  which, 
says  I to  the  girls,  will  delight  the  poor  soul,  as  it  will  give  her  an 
opportunity  of  earning  decent  bread  for  herself.  You  must  know, 
my  dear,  the  tutoress  we  brought  to  toAvn  would  not  come  back 
witn  us — a dirty  trollop,  by  the  bye,  and  I think  her  place  would  be 
quite  the  thing  for  you.  You  will  have  the  four  young  girls  to  learn 
French,  and  work  to,  and  I will  expect  you,  as  you  have  a good  taste, 
to  assist  the  eldest  Miss  Kilcorbans  in  making  up  their  things  and 
dressing. — I give  twenty  guineas  a year,  Y^hen  we  have  no  com- 
pany, the  tutoress  always  sits  at  the  table,  and  gets,  besides  this,  the 
best  of  treatment  in  every  respect.” 

A blush  of  indignation  had  gradually  conquered  Amanda’s  pale- 
ness, during  Mrs.  Kilcorban’s  long  and  eloquent  speech — “ Your 
intentions  may  be  friendly,  madam,”  cried  she,  “ but  I must  decline 
your  proposal.” 

“ BleuS  me,  and  why  must  you  decline  it ! Perhaps  you  think  your- 
self not  qualified  to  instruct : indeed  this  may  be  the  case,  for  people 
often  get  credit  for  accomplishments  they  did  not  possess.  Well,  if 
this  is  so  I am  still  content  to  take  you,  as  you  were  always  a decent 
behaved  young  body.  Indeed  you  cannot  expect  I should  give  you 
twenty  guineas  a year : no,  no,  I must  make  some  abatement  in  the 
salary ; if  I am  forced  to  get  mastei's  to  help  in  learning  the  girls.” 
‘^Miss  Fiualan,  madam,”  exclaimed  the  prioress,  who  had  hitherto 
continued  silent,  never  got  credit  for  accomplishments  which  she 
did  not  possess  ; her  modesty  has  rather  obscured  than  blazoned  forth 
her  perfections ; she  does  not,  therefci*e,  madam,  decline  your  offer 
from  a consciousness  of  inability  to  undertake  the  office  of  instructor, 
but  from  a conviction  she  never  could  support  impertinence  and 
folly ; should  her  situation  ever  require  her  to  exert  her  talents  for 
subsistence,  I trust  she  will  never  experience  the  mortification  of 
associating  with  those  who  are  insensible  of  her  worth,  or  unwilling 
to  pay  her  the  respect  she  merits.” 

‘‘Hoity  toity,”  cried  Mrs.  Kilcorban,  “what  assurance!  Yliy, 
madam,  many  a better  man’s  child  would  be  glad  to  jump  at  such  aa 
offer.” 


372 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Dear  madam,”  said  Miss  Kilcorban,  “ perhaps  the  young  lady  has 
a better  settlement  in  view.  AYe  forget  Lord  Mortimer  has  been  lately 
at  Castle  Carberry,  and  we  all  know  his  lordship  is  a friend  to  Captain 
Fitzalan’s  daughter.  ’ 

Or,  perhaps,”  cried  Miss  Alicia,-  in  a giggling  tone,  “ sbe  means  to 
be  a nun.” 

“ Indeed,  I suppose  slie  means  to  be  nothing  good,”  rejoined  Mrs. 
Kilcorban,  “ and  I suppose  it  was  by  some  impertinence  or  other  she 
had  a tiff  with  Lady  Greystock.  Lord!  (looking  round  the  room) 
only  see  her  music  books — ^her  harp — her  guitar — as  if  she  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  sing  and  thrum  away  the  whole  day.  Well,  miss,” 
rising  from  her  chair,  “ you  may  yet  be  sorry  your  friend  said  so 
much  about  you.  I did  not  come  merely  to  offer  to  take  you  into  my 
house,  but  to  offer  you  also  a good  sum  for  your  harp  and  guitar, 
supposing  you  had  no  business  with  such  things  now-a  days ; but  I 
dare  say  you  would  have  refused  this  offer.” 

‘‘  I certainly  should,  marlam,”  said  Amanda ; “ it  must  be  strong 
necessity,  which  compels  me  to  part  with  my  beloved  father’s  pre- 
sents.” 

“Well,  well,  child,  I wish  this  pride  of  thine  may  not  yet  bo 
humbled,”  So  saying  she  flounced  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  her 
daughters^  who,  under  an  affectation  of  contempt,  evidently  showed 
they  were  chagrined  by  the  reception  they  had  met. 

The  prioress  indulged  herself  in  a long  fit  of  laughter,  at  the 
passion  in  which  she  had  thrown  Mrs.  Kilcorban ; and  Amanda,  who 
considered  the  lady  and  her  daughters  as  the  most  insignificant  of 
Liman  beings,  soon  recovered  from  the  discomposure  their  visits  had 
occasioned. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  a letter  was  delivered  her  by  tho 
servant,  who  said  the  messenger  who  brought  it  waited  for  an 
answer.  Amanda,  in  a universal  trepidation,  broke  the  seal;  but, 
instead  of  Lord  Mortimer’s,  as  she  expected,  a hand,  to  her  entirely 
new,  struck  her  view, 

“to  miss  fitzalan. 

“my  dear  creature, 

“I  think  I was  never  so  diverted  in  my  life  as  at  the  account 
my  mother  and  sisters  gave  of  the  reception  they  met  with  from 
you  to-day  at  St.  Catharine’s.  I vow  to  God  it  was  excellent ; nor 
can  I help  still  wondering  at  their  absurdity,  in  thinking  such  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


373 


devilish  fine  girl  as  you  are,  would  sacrifice  your  time  in  instructing 
a parcel  of  chits,  when  it  can  be  devoted  to  so  much  better  purpose. 
To  be  brief,  my  dear  girl,  I will  take  you  immediately  under  my  pro- 
tection : if  not  your  own  fault,  bring  you  to  Dublin,  settle  you  in 
elegant  lodgings,  with  a handsome  allowance,  and  not  only  make  you, 
but  declare  you,  to  be  the  grand  sultana  of  my  alfections,  a situation 
which,  I can  assure  you,  you  will  not  be  a little  envied  enjoying.  In 
your  answer  to  this,  I shall  expect  to  hear  when  I may  have  the  feli- 
city of  bringing  you  out  of  obscurity,  to  the  brilliant  scene  you  were 
formed  to  ornament.  Adieu  my  dear. 

‘‘  Believe  me  your  devoted, 

“B.  Kilcoeban.” 

The  indignation  which  filled  Amanda’s  breast,  at  reading  this  scroll^ 
cannot  be  expressed.  Her  blood  seemed  to  boil  in  her  veins ; it  was 
some  time  ere  she  could  sufficient!}^  compose  herself  to  acquaint  the 
prioress  with  the  cause  of  her  agitation ; it  was  then  agreed  that  the 
letter  should  be  returned,  with  the  following  lines  written  on  it. 


“ The  author  of  this  effusion  of  ignorance  and  impertinence  has  already  inspired  all  the 
contempt  he  merits ; should  he  repeat  his  insolence,  something  even  more  mortifying  than 
contempt,  chastisement,  must  ensue.” 

That  a repetition  of  this  kind  would  be  the  case  she  did  not  believe. 
From  Kilcorban,  she  had  no  reason  to  suspect  either  the  perseverance 
or  designs  of  Belgrave ; one  was  a libertine  from  principle,  and  the 
other  she  believed  from  fashion,  and  that  to  pique  his  pride  would  be 
a sure  method  of  getting  rid  of  him. 

But  the  calm  she  had  for  some  time  experienced  was  destined  to  be 
interrupted.  The  next  morning  brought  father  O’Gail aghan,  the  little 
fat  priest  (of  whom  we  have  made  mention  before  in  our  pages)  to 
the  convent,  he  was  not  the  officiating  priest,  but  notwithstanding 
this  paid  many  visits  to  the  sisterhood,  with  whom  he  was  a great 
favourite  ; he  had  been  much  concerned  about  Amanda’s  illness.  She 
was  sitting  alone  in  the  parlour,  drawing,  when  he  entered  it.  He 
seated  himself  by  her,  and  the  expression  of  his  countenance  seemed 
to  declare  his  heart  was  brimful  of  something  pleasant. 

“ You  won’t  be  offended  now,  my  dear  sowl,”  said  he,  smirking  up 
in  her  face,  “ with  a body  for  asking  you  how  you  would  like  to  leave 
this  dismal  solitude,  and  have  a comfortable  home  of  your  own, 
where  you  might  see  your  own  friends,  and  have  ^every  thing  warm 
end  cosy  about  you.” 


374  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

“ Why,"  said  Amanda,  “ tlioiigli  I do  not  consider  this  a dismal  soIi« 
tude,  yet,  to  he  snre,  I should  have  no  objection  to  a pleasant  settled 
habitation.” 

“Ay,  I always  thought  you  a sensible  young  body.  Well,  and 
what  would  you  say  to  the  person  then  who  could  point  out  such  a 
habitation;  ay,  you  little  rogue,  who  could  say  they  had  just  such  a 
one  in  their  eye  for  you  !” 

Amanda  stared  at  him  with  astonishment.  She  had  at  first  believed 
him  jesting,  but  now  found  him  serious. 

“ Ay,  faith,  my  dear  creature,”  cried  he,  continuing  his  discourse, 
with  a look  of  the  most  perfect  satisfaction,  “ I have  an  ofier  to  make 
you,  which  I believe  would  make  many  girls  jump  out  of  their  skins 
with  joy  to  hear.” 

“ You  remember  the  O’Flanaghans,  I am  sure  where  you  took  tea 
last  summer.  Well,  the  eldest  of  the  sons  (as  honest  a lad  as  ever 
broke  bread)  cast  a sheep’s  eye  upon  you  then : but  what  with  your 
going  from  the  country,  and  some  other  matters,  he  thought  there 
was  no  use  then  in  revealing  his  fiame ; but  now,  when  you  are  come 
plump  in  his  way  again,  faith  he  plucked  up  his  courage,  and  told  his 
fatlier  all  about  it.  Old  Flanaghan  is  a good-natured  sowl,  and  is 
very  willing  the  match  should  take  place.  They  have  every  thing 
snug  about  them.  The  old  man  will  give  every  thing  into  your 
spouse’s  hands ; the  youngest  son  will  live  in  the  house  till  he  gets 
married,  and  goes  off  to  a farm  of  his  own ; the  eldest  daughter  is 
married ; the  second  will  live  with  her,  and  the  youngest  will  be  a 
little  handy  assistant  to  you ; so  you  see  you  will  not  be  tormented 
with  a large  family.  There  is  one  little  matter,  which  to  be  sure,  they 
are  a little  uneasy  about,  and  that  is,  your  being  of  different  persua- 
sions ; but,  says  I to  them,  when  this  was  stated — faith,  says  I,  you 
need  not  give  yourself  any  trouble  about  it,  for  I know  the  young 
woman  to  be  a discreet  sowl,  and  I am  sure  she  will  make  no  hesitation 
about  going  to  chapel  instead  of  church,  when  she  knows  too,  it  is 
fo""  her  own  interest.  So,  my  dear  sowl,  I hope  soon  to  give  you  the 
Doplial  benediction,  and  to  be  also  your  spiritual  director.” 

Amanda  liad  listened  to  this  speech  in  silent  amazement.  She  now 
rose,  and  would  have  quitted  the  room  without  speaking,  to  evince 
her  contempt,  had  not  an  idea  darted  into  her  mind,  that  such  con- 
duct, perhaps,  might  not  be  construed  by  the  ignorant  priest  in  the 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


375 


manner  she  wished;  she  therefore  stopped  and  turning  to  him  said, 
“He  could  not  wonder  at  her  being  offended  at  his  pretending  to 
answer  so  freely  for  her,  in  matters  so  important  as  religion ; but  to 
prove  how  presumptuous  he  was  in  every  thing  he  said  about  Iier,  slio 
must  assure  him,  his  embassy  to  her  was  equally  fruitless  and  dis- 
agreeable : and  that  if  Mr.  O’Flanaghan  consulted  his  own  happiness, 
hr  would  seek  to  unite  himself  with  a woman  brought  up  in  his  own 
sphere  of  life.”  So  saying,  she  quitted  the  room,  witli  a look  of 
dignity,  which  quite  confounded  the  poor  priest,  who  snatched  up 
his  hat  in  a great  hurry,  and  waddled  away  to  the  farm,  to  communi 
*cate  the  ill  success  of  his  visit,  which  had  quite  crushed  his  expecta- 
tions of  wedding  presents,  and  pudding  feasts,  which  lie  had  contem- 
plated in  idea  with  delight. 

It  was  some  time  ere  Amanda  recovered  from  the  discomposure 
into  which  the  impertinence  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  the  priest  had 
thrown  her.  From  what  she  suffered  in  consequence  of  it,  she  was 
forcibly  convinced  how  ill  qualified  she  was  to  struggle  with  a world 
where  she  would  be  continually  liable  to  such  shocks : she  liad  yet  a 
hope  of  escaping  them — a hope  of  being  guarded  by  the  tutelary  caro 
of  Lord  Mortimer  and  of  being  one  of  the  happiest  of  her  sex. 


CHAPTEK  XXXYIII. 

Lo ! I am  here  to  answer  to  your  vows, 

And  be  the  meeting  fortunate ! I come 
With  joyful  tidings — we  shall  part  no  more. 

Pleasures  of  Imagination. 

But  a shock  more  severe  than  those  she  had  lately  experienced 
was  yet  in  store  for  our  hapless  heroine.  About  a fortnight  after  the 
visit  of  the  Kilcorbans  and  the  priest,  as  she  was  rambling  one  even- 
ing, according  to  custom,  amongst  the  solitary  ruins  of  St.  Oaiharino's, 
indulging  the  pensive  meditations  of  her  soul,  the  figure  of  a n.aa 
suddenly  darted  from  under  a broken  arch,  and  discovered  to  he? 
view  the  features  of  the  hated  Belgrave.  Amanda  gave  a faint  ciy, 
and  in  unutterable  dismay  tottered  back  a few  paces  against  a walk 
“Cruel  Amanda,”  exclaimed  Belgrave,  while  his  look  seemed  to 


SvG  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY* 

imply  lie  would  take  advantage  of  her  situation ; his  look,  his  voice 
operated  like  a charm  to  rouse  her  from  the  kind  of  stupefaction  into 
which  she  had  fallen  at  first  sight  of  him,  and,  as  he  attempted  to  lay 
hold  of  her,  slie  sprang  past  him,  and,  with  a swiftness  which  mocked 
his  speed,  flew  through  the  intricate  windings  of  the  place  till  she 
reached  the  convent.  Her  pale  and  distracted  look,  as  she  rushed 
into  the  prioress’  apartment,  terrified  the  good  old  lady,  who  hastily 
interrogated  her  as  to  the  cause  of  her  disorder ; hut  Amanda  was 
unable  to  speak.  The  appearance  of  Belgrave  she  thought  an  omen 
of  every  ill  to  her.  Her  blood  ran  cold  through  her  veins  at  his 
sight,  and  terror  totally  subdued  her  powers.  The  prioress  sum-* 
moned  sister  Mary  to  her  relief ; drops  and  water  were  administered, 
and  the  overloaded  heart  of  the  trembling  Amanda  was  relieved  by 
tears.  The  prioress  again  asked  the  cause  of  her  agitation ; but,  per- 
ceiving Amanda  did  not  like  to  speak  before  sister  Mary,  she  imme- 
diately pretended  to  think  it  proceeded  from  fatigue ; and  Mary,  who 
was  simplicity  itself,  readily  credited  the  idea-.  The  prioress  soon 
sent  her  upon  some  pretext  from  the  room,  and  then  in  the  gentlest 
terms,  begged  to  know  what  had  so  cruelly  alarmed  her  young  friend. 
Amanda  had  already  confided  to  the  prioress  the  events  of  her  life,  sg 
that  the  good  lady,  on  hearing  Belgrave  now  mentioned,  no  longei 
wondered  at  the  agitation  of  Amanda;  yet,  as  her  fears,  slie  saw, 
were  too  powerful  for  her  reason,  she  endeavoured  to  convince  hei 
they  were  unnecessary.  She  called  to  her  1-ememhrance  the  singulai 
protection  she  had  already  experienced  from  Heaven,  and  the  protec- 
tion which,  whilst  she  was  innocent,  she  would  still  have  a right  to 
expect.  She  also  mentioned  the  security  of  her  present  situation, 
encompassed  by  friends  whose  integrity  could  not  be  warped,  and 
whose  utmost  zeal  would  be  manifested  in  defeating  any  stratagems 
which  might  be  laid  against  her. 

Amanda  grew  composed  as  she  listened  to  the  prioress;  she  was 
cheered  by  B e voice  of  piety  and  friendship,  and  her  heart  again  felt 
firm  and  elevated.  She  acknowledged  that,  after  the  singular,  nay, 
almost  miraculous  interpositions  of  Providence  she  had  experienced 
in  her  favour,  to  give  way  to  terror  or  despair  was  sinful,  since  it 
showed  a distrust  of  the  Power,  who  has  promised,  with  guardian 
care,  to  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  innocent. 

It  was,  however,  agreed  that  Amanda  should  venture  no  more 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


377 


from  tlio  convent,  but  confine  her  rambles  to  the  garden,  which  was 
enclosed  with  a high  wall,  and  had  no  places  of  concealment.  Five 
weeks  yet  remained  of  the  period  Lord  Mortimer  had  requested  her 
to  stay  at  St.  Catharine’s;  before  it  was  expired,  she  trusted  and 
Believed  Belgrave  would  be  weary  of  watching  her,  and  would 
decamp ; if  then  she  neither  saw  nor  heard  from  Lord  Mortimer,  she 
resolved  to  relinquish  all  hope  concerning  him,  and  immediately 
think  upon  some  plan,  which  would  put  her  in  a way  of  procuring 
subsistence. 

Her  paintings  and  embroidery  still  went  on;  she  had  executed 
.some  elegant  pictures  in  both,  which,  if  obliged  to  dispose  of,  she  was 
sure  would  fetch  a good  price ; yet,  whenever  compelled  by  reflection 
to  this  idea,  the  tear  of  tender  melancholy  would  fall  upon  her  lovely 
cheek,  a tear  which  was  ever  hastily  wiped  away,  while  she  endea- 
voured to  fortify  her  mind  with  pious  resignation  to  whatever  should 
be  her  future  fate. 

Three  weeks  more  elapsed  without  any  event  to  discompose  their 
tranquillity ; but  as  the  termination  of  the  destined  period  approached, 
the  agitation  of  Amanda,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  the  contrary, 
increased;  she  deemed  the  awful  crisis  of  her  fate  at  hard,  and  she 
trembled  at  the  reflection. 

She  now,  for  the  flrst  time,  avoided  solitude ; she  wanted  to  fly 
from  herself,  and  sat  constantly  with  the  prioress,  who  had  nothing 
of  the  gloomy  recluse,  save  the  habit,  about  her. 

They  were  chatting  together  one  evening  after  tea,  Vvhen  sister 
Mary  entered  the  room,  bearing  a large  packet,  which  she  rather 
tossed  than  presented  to  Amanda,  exclaiming,  “From  Lord  Morti- 
mer. I wish  the  troublesome  fellow  had  not  come  back  aga'n;  here 
we  shall  have  him  frisking  or  storming  continually,  and  again  plagu- 
ing us  out  of  our  lives.” 

“From  Lord  Mortimer!”  exclaimed  Amanda,  starting  frc'm  her 
chair,  and  clasping  the  letter  between  her  hands ; “ Oh  I gracious 
heaven!”  She  said  no  more,  but  flew  from  the  room  to  her  cham- 
ber. She  tore  open  the  seal;  the  envelope  contained  two  letters; 
the  flrst  was  directed  in  a hand  unknown  to  her ; her  heart  sickened 
as  she  dropped  it  on  the  ground ; the  other  was  the  superscrij  tion  o.f 
Lord  Mortimer.  She  opened  it  with  revived  spirits,  and  read  as 
follows  • 


878 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


“to  miss  FITZALAN. 

“ 1 am  returned,  returned  to  tell  my  Amanda  that  nothing  hut  the 
awful  fiat  of  Heaven  shall  part  us  more.  Yes,  my  love,  a sweet 
reward  for  all  our  difficulties,  our  trials,  let  me  add,  our  persevering 
constancy  is  at  hand,  and  one  name,  one  interest,  one  fate,  I trusty 
will  soon  be  ours.” 

Tears  of  joy  gushed  from  Amanda  as  she  exclaimed,  “ Can  this — 
can  this  be  true  ? Is  Lord  Mortimer,  so  long,  so  hopelessly  beloved, 
indeed  returned  to  tell  me  we  shall  part  no  more  ? ’Tis  true,  tis 
true,  and  never  can  my  grateful  heart  sufficiently  acxnowledge  the 
goodness  it  experiences;  but  how  was  this  event  brought  about?” 
She  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  resumed  the  letter. 

“ Your  solemn  refusal  to  unite  yourself  to  me,  threw  me  into  ago- 
nies ; but  true  love,  like  true  courage  will  never  despair,  will  never 
yield  to  difficulties,  without  first  trying  every  effort  to  conquer  them  : 
I soon,  therefore,  roused  myself  from  the  heavy  weight  which 
oppi-essed  my  spirits  at  your  resolution,  and  ere  long  conceived  a pro- 
ject so  feasible,  so  almost  certain  of  success,  that  my  impatience  to 
realize  it  cannot  be  described ; yet  you  may  conceive  some  idea  of  it 
from  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  I quitted  Castle  Oarberry,  without 
desiring  to  bid  you  adieu  ; but,  ere  it  could  be  accomplished,  I plainly 
saw  I had  many  difficulties  to  encounter ; difiiculties  which  it  was 
absolutely  essential  to  overcome,  that  I might  prove  to  the  world  1 
was  not  the  dupe  of  love,  but  the  friend,  the  lover,  and  the  vindica- 
tor of  real  innocence  and  virtue.  From  what  I have  said,  you  may 
suppose  the  difficulties  I allude  to  were  such  as  I expected  to 
encounter  in  my  attempt  to  unravel  the  whole  of  the  deep  and  exe- 
crable plot  which  involved  you  in  a situation  so  distressing  to  your 
feelings,  and  injurious  to  your  character ! and,  oh ! with  what 
mingled  pride  and  pleasure  did  I meditate  on  being  your  champion, 
clearing  your  fame  from  each  dark  aspersion,  and  proving,  clearly 
proving,  that  your  mind  was  as  lovely,  as  angelic,  as  your  person ! 

“ I was  happy,  on  my  arrival  in  London,  to  find  Lady  Martha  Dor- 
mer still  at  Lord  Cherbury’s  house.  I have  already  told  you  that  I 
left  town  on  pretence  of  visiting  my  sister  in  Wales.  My  father,  I 
soon  perceived,  suspected  that  had  not  been  the  real  motive  of  my 
departure  : but  I soon  perceived  he  did  not  desire  to  reveal  his  sus- 
picions, as  he  asked  me  some  questions  concerning  Lady  Axaminta, 
which,  you  may  be  sure,  I answered  awkwardly  enough,  and  had  a 
comic  writer  been  present,  he  might  have  taken  the  hint  of  a good 
blundering  scene  from  ns  both. 

“ The  Marquis  of  liosline  and  his  family,  I learned,  continued  at 
bis  villa.  Their  absence  from  town  rejoiced  me,  as  it  not  only 
exempted  mo  from  society  I abhorred,  but  as  it  gave  me  an  oppor 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  379 

tUBity  of  interrogating  their  household,  amongst  Trhom  I con* 
vinced  I should  discover  the  trusty  agents  the  amiable  marchi(  ness 
liad  made  use  of  in  her  scheme  against  you.  The  morning  afU'r  my 
arrival,  I accordingly  set  olf  to  Portman  Square.  The  man 
opened  the  door  knew  me  not,  which  I considered  a lucky  circum- 
stance, for,  not  being  able  to  mention  my  name  to  the  housekeeper, 
whom  I desired  him  to  send  me,  she  was  not  so  much  on  her  gua^d 
as  she  would  otherwise  have  been.  She  started  as  she  entered  the 
parlour,  and  lifted  up  her  hands  and  eyes  with  unfeigned  astonish- 
ment. Soon,  however,  recovering  herself,  she  addressed  me  in  the 
most  obsequious  manner,  and  spoke  as  if  she  supposed  I was  come 
purposely  to  inquire  after  her  Lord  and  Lady ; an  artful  wmy  of  try- 
ing to  terminate  her  own  suspense  by  leaiming  the  nature  of  my 
visit.  I soon  gave  her  to  understand  it  was  not  of  the  most  aiincab  o 
kind  to  her : I came,  I said,  to  demand  either  the  letter,  or  an 
account  of  the  letter  which  I had  entrusted  tc  her  care  for  Miss 
Eitzalan,  whicli  contained  a note  of  large  value,  and  which  I 
found  had  never  been  received  by  that  young  lady.  Her  counte- 
nance in  a moment  condemned  her : it  spoke  stronger  tlian  a tliou- 
sand  tongues  against  her.  She  first  grew  deadly  pale,  then  fiery  red, 
trembled,  faltered,  and  hung  her  head  to  avoid  my  eyes.  Her  looks, 
1 told  her,  confirmed  the  suspicions  I was  fo^-ced  to  entertain  of  her 
integrity ; yet,  shocking  as  the  action  was  v/hich  she  had  committed, 
being  not  only  a breach  of  trust,,  but  humanity,  I wms  willing  to 
come  to  an  easy  and  private  accommodation  about  it,  provided  she 
would  truly  and  fully  confess  the  part  she  had  taken,  or  knew  others 
to  have  taken,  in  injuring  Miss  Fitzalan,  while  she  resided  in  the 
marquis’s  house,  by  bringing  Colonel  Belgrave  into  it.  I paused  for 
her  reply.  She  appeared  as  if  considering  how  she  should  act.  I 
thought  I saw  something  yielding  in  her  face,  and  eager  to  take 
advantage  of  it,  I proceeded:  What  I have  already  said,  I am  going 
again  to  repeat;  that  is,  if  you  confess  all  you  know  relative  to  the 
plot  which  was  contrived  and  carried  into  execution  in  this  house 
against  Miss  Fitzalan,  I will  settle  every  thipg  relative  to  the  letter 
and  its  contents,  in  a manner  pleasing  to  you.  Her  innocence  is 
unquestioned  by  me ; but  it  is  essential  to  her  peace  that  it  should 
also  be  so  to  the  rest  of  her  friends,  and  they  v/ho  regard  her  welfare 
will  liberally  reward  those  wLose  allegations  shall  justify  her. 

“Upon  tliis  she  turned  to  me,  with  a countenance  of  the  utmost 
effrontery,  and  said  she  would  not  tell  a lie  to  please  any, one.  I will 
not  shock  you  by  repeating  all  she  said.  She  ended  by  saying,  as  to 
the  letter,  she  set  me  at  defiance ; true,  I had  given  her  one  for  Miss 
Fitzalan ; but  I might  remember  Miss  Fitzalan  w^as  in  a fit  on  the 
ground  at  the  time,  and  she  had  called  in  other  servants  to  her  assist- 
ance, she  said ; and  in  the  hurry  and  bustle  wdiicli  ensued,  she  knew^ 
not  wLat  became  of  it ; others  might  as  well  be  called  upon  as  her. 
I could  no  longer  command  m3"  temper;  I told  her  she  wuas  a wretch, 
and  only  fit  for  the  diabolical  iservice  in  which  she  was  em])lo3Xih 
The  note,  which  I enclosed  in  the  letter  I had  given  ho”  for  you,  I 


S80 


CHILDREN  6F  THE  ABBEY. 


bad  received  from  my  father’s  agent  in  the  conntry;  as  a post  note  I 
had  endorsed  it,  and  taken  the  number  in  my  pocket-book ; I tiierC'' 
fore  left  Portman  Square  with  a resolution  of  going  to  the  Bank,  and 
if  not  already  received,  stopping  payment;  I stepped  into  the  first 
liacknc^^-coach  I met,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  it  had  not 
been  ofiered  at  the  Bank.  I suspected  she  would  be  glad  to  exchange 
it  for  cash  as  soon  as  possible,  and  therefore  left  my  direction,  as  well 
as  request  for  the  detention  of  any  person  who  sliould  present  it. 

‘^In  consequence  of  this  a clerk  came  the  following  morning,  to 
inform  me  a woman  had  presented  the  note  at  the  Bank,  and  was, 
agreeable  to  my  request,  detained  till  I appeared.  I immediately 
returned  with  him,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  housekeeper 
caught  in  the  snare.  She  burst  into  tears,  at  my  appearance,  and 
coming  up  to  me,  in  a low  voice  said,  if  I would  have  mercy  upon 
her,  she  would  in  return  make  a full  confession  of  all  she  knew  about 
tlie  afiair  I had  mentioned  to  her  yesterday. 

“ I told  her,  though  she  deserved  no  mercy,  yet,  as  I had  promised 
on  such  condition  to  show  her  lenity,  I would  not  violate  my  word. 
I received  the  note,  sent  for  a coach,  and  handing  the  lady  into  it, 
soon  conveyed  her  to  Foreman  Square.  She  no  sooner  entered  the 
parlour  than  she  fell  on  lier  knees,  and  besought  my  forgiveness.  I 
bid  her  rise,  and  lose  no  time  in  revealing  all  slie  knew  concerning 
the  scheme  against  you.  She  then  confessed,  that  both  she  and  Mrs. 
Jane,  the  attendant  who  had  been  placed  about  your  person,  were 
acquainted  and  concerned  :n  all  the  contrivances  the  marchioness 
had  laid  against  you,  who  scrupled  not  acknowledging  to  them  the 
inveterate  hatred  she  bore  you.  Their  scruples,  for  they  pretended 
to  have  some  in  abetting  their  schemes,  were  over-ruled,  by  knowing 
how  much  it  was  in  her  power  to  injure  them  in  any  future  estab- 
lishment, had  they  disobliged  her,  and  by  her  liberal  promises  of 
reward,  Yliich  she  housekeeper  added  she  had  never  kept : but  this 
brief  and  uncircumstantial  account  was  by  no  means  satisfactory  to 
me.  I called  for  materials'  for  writing,  and  insisted  she  should,  to 
tlie  best  of  her  recollection,  relate  every  word  or  circumstance  wliich 
had  ever  passed  between  her  and  tlie  marchioness,  and  their  other 
associates,  relative  to  you.  She  hesitated  at  this.  On  those  terms 
only,  I said,  I would  grant  iier  my  forgiveness,  and  by  her  complying 
with  them,  not  only  that,  but  a liberal  recompense  should  be  hers. 
This  last  promise  had  the  desired  effect ; she  laid  open  indeed  a scene 
of  complicated  iniquity,  relating  the  manner  in  wliich  Colonel  Bel- 
grave  was  brought  into  the  house  by  her  and  Mrs.  Jane,  how  they 
had  stationed  tliemselves  in  a place  of  concealment  to  listen,  by  which 
means  the^^  knew  what  passed  between  you,  which  she  now,  in  almost 
the  very  same  words  ycu  made  use  of,  repeated  to  me;  as  she  spoke 
1 wrote  it,  and  made  her  sign  the  paper  under  a paragraph,  purport- 
ing that  it  was  a true  confession  of  the  part  slie  had  taken,  and  knew 
others  to  have  taken,  in  attempting  to  injure  Miss  Fitzalan. 

‘"•I  now  mentioned  Mrs.  Jane,  whose  evidence  I wished  for  to 
corroborate  hers.  This  she  assured  me  I might  procure  by  promising 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


881 


a reward,  as  Mrs.  Jane  was  much  dissatisfied  with  the  raarcliioness 
and  Lady  Euplirasia,  neither  of  whom  liad  recompensed  her  as  she 
expected,  for  her  faithful  services  to  them.  She  was  now  at  the 
villa;  but  the  housekeeper  added,  that  she  would  strike  out  some 
expedient  to  bring  her  to  town  in  the  course  of  the  week,  and  would 
inform  me  immediately  of  her  arrival.  I told  her  the  atlair  of  the 
note  should  be  no  more  mentioned,  and  gave  a bill  for  fifty  pounds  as 
the  reward  I had  promised,  and  she  eagerly  accepfed.  I told  her  slie 
might  promise  a similar  one  in  my  name  to  Mrs.  Jane,  ppwided  slie 
also  told  truth.  I also  told  her  I would  take  care  she  r hould  sutler 
no  distress,  by  quitting  the  marquis’s  family,  which  she  Lmented 
would  be  the  consequence  of  what  she  had  done. 

Mrs.  Jane  did  not  come  to  town  as  soon  as  I expected ; but  on 
receiving  a summons  to  inform  me  of  iier  arrival,  I hastened  to  the 
house  like  an  inquisitor-general  with  my  scroll ; prepared  to  take  the 
confession  of  the  fair  culprit,  which  exactly  corresponded  with  the 
housekeeper’s,  and  I had  the  felicity  of  seeing  her  subscribe  her  name 
to  it. . I gave  her  the  promised  recompense  most  cheerfully,  as  I had 
not  lu'lf  so  much  trouble  in  making  her  tell  truth,  as  I had  with  the 
housekeeper.  Mrs.  Jennings,  your  old  landlady,  and  Lady  Greystock’s 
faithful  friend,  was  the  next  and  last  person  wdiose  malice  I wanted 
to  refute.  I made  my  servant  inquire  her  character  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  learned  it  was  considered  a very  suspicious  one.  I went 
to  her  one  morning  in  my  carriage,  well-knowing  that  the  appearance 
of  rar  k and  splendour  would  have  a greater  weight  in  influencing  a 
being  like  her  to  justice  than  any  plea  of  conscience.  She  appeared 
lost  ill.  astonishment  and  confusion  at  my  visit,  and,  I saw,  waited 
with  trembling  expectation  to  have  the  reason  of  it  revealed.  I kept 
her  net  long  in  suspense.  I was  the  friend,  I told  her  of  a young  lady 
w^hose  character  she  had  vilely  and  falsely  aspersed.  Her  conscience, 
I told  her,  I believed  would  whisper  to  her  heart  the  name  of  this 
lady,  fmd  send  its  crimson  current  to  her  face  at  the  mention  of  Miss 
Fitzalan. 

The  wretch  seemed  ready  to  sink  to  the  earth,  I repeated  to  her 
all  she  had  said  concerning  you  to  Lady  Greystock.  I told  her  of  the 
consequences  of  defamation,  and  declared  she  might  expect  the  utmost 
rigour  of  the  law,  except  she  confessed  her  assertions  w^ere  infamous 
falsehoods,  and  the  motives  which  instigated  her  to  them.  She 
tremlled  with. terror,  and  supplicated  mercy : I desired  her  to  deserve 
it  by  her  confession.  She  then  acknowledged  she  had  grossly  and 
cruelly  wronged  you,  by  what  she  had  said  to  Lady  Greystock,  and 
that  she  had  many  opportunities  of  being  convinced,  while  you  resided 
in  her  house,  that  your  virtue  and  innocence  were  of  the  purest 
nature ; but  that  she  was  provoked  to  speak  maliciously  against  you 
from  resentment  at  losing  all  the  rich  gifts  Colonel  Belgrade  had 
proDv'sed  her,  if  she  brought  you  to  comply  with  his  wfishes.  She 
relaLd  all  the  stratagems  they  Lad  mutually  concerted  for  your 
destruction,  and  she  brought  me  some  letters,  which  T have  kept, 
fr-om  him  to  you,  and  which  she  pretended  you  had  received,  lest  she 


S32  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

should  lose  the  money  he  always  gave  vfhen  she  was  successful  in 
deliveriug  one. 

I hid  her  beware  how  she  ever  attempted  to  vilify  innocence,  lest 
tlie  friends  of  those  at  whom  she  levelled  her  arrows  of  defamation 
sliould  not  he  jls  merciful  to  her  as  Miss  Fitzalan’s  had  been,  and  was 
tJie  tale  of  the  slanderer  thus  ever  to  he  minutely  investigated,  the 
eeF  might  die  away  by  degrees,  and  many  hapless  victims  escape  v;ho 
are  dai^y  sacr 'diced  to  malice,  revenge,  or  envy. 

“OL!  my  Amanda,  I cannot  express  the  transports  I felt  wdien  I 
found  the  difficulties,  which  I dreaded  as  intervening  between  me  and 
happiness,  thus  removed.  I felt  myself  the  happiest  of  men;  my 
heart  acknoAvledged  your  worth,  I w^as  convinced  of  your  love,  and 
in  my  liands  I held  the  refutation  of  falsehood,  and  the  contirmation 
of , your  innocence. 

The  period  for  mentioning  my  project  was  now  arrived:  I desired, 
the  morning  after  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Jennings,  to  he  indulged  in  a t^tf- 
a-tete  in  Lady  Martha’s  dressing-room;  I believe  she  half-guessed 
what  the  subject  v/ould  be:  she  saw  by  my  countenance  there  was 
joyful  news  at  hand.  1 shall  not  recapitulate  our  conversation ; 
suffice  it  to  say,  that  her  excellent  feeling  heart  participated  largely  in 
my  satisfaction : it  did  more  than  participate,  it  wushed  to  increase  it* 
and  ere  I could  mention  my  project,  she  declared  my  Amanda  should 
henceforth  be  considered  as  her  adopted  daughter,  and  should  from 
her  receive  such  a fortune  as  such  a title  claimed.  Yes,  my  Amanda, 
the  fortune  she  ever  destined  for  me,  she  said  she  should  now  conse- 
crate to  the  purpose  of  procuring  me  a treasure,  the  most  valuable 
heaven  could  bestow — the  richest — the  most  valuable  indeed — a 
treasure  dearer,  far  dearer  to  my  soul  for  all  the  dangers  it  has 
encountered.  I fell  at  Lady  Martha’s  feet,  in  a transport  of  gratitude, 
and  acknowledged  that  she  had  anticipated  what  I was  going  to  say, 
as  I had  been  determined  to  throw  myself  on  her  generosity,  from 
the  time  I was  convinced  of  your  inflexible  resolution,  not  to  unite 
yourself  to  me  without  you  brought  a fortune. 

“ It  Avas  noAV  agreed  Ave  should  keep  Lord  Cherbury  a little  longer 
ignorant  of  our  intentions  ; Ave  proposed  taking  the  marchioness  and 
Lady  Euprasia  by  surprise,  and  hoping  by  so  doing,  to  be  able  to 
remove  from  his  eyes  the  mist  AAdiich  partiality  had  hitherto  spread 
before  them,  to  obscure  the  defects  of  the  above-mentioned  ladies. 

He  had  hinted  more  than  once  his  Avishes  for  my  paying  my 
comjJiments  to  the  marquis’s  villa.  I noAv  proposed  going  thither 
myself  the  ensuing  day.  He  looked  equally  surprised  and  pleased. 
At  Ids  proposal  Lady  Martha  agreed  to  accompany  me,  and  his  lord- 
ship,  you  may  be  sure,  determined  to  be  one  of  the  party,  that  he 
ndght  supply  tlje  deficiencies  of  his  son,  which  he  had  heretofore 
found  pretty  manifest  in  such  society.  - 

“ We  had  the  happiness  to  And  all  the  family  at  home  wffien  we 
reached  tlie  villa.  The  ladies  all  expressed  themselves  delighted  at 
my  unexpected  appearance,  and  (piite  cliarmed  by  my  recovered  looks* 
The  marquis,  Avith  his  usual  sang  froid,  declared  himself  glad  to  see 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ALBEY. 


383 


me.  Ye  smiling  deceivers,  I cried  to  myself,  as  I snryeycd  the 
marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  your  triumph  over  innocence  and 
beauty  will  soon  be  over.  After  passing  half  an  hour  in  uninterest- 
ing chit-chat,  I took  the  opportunity  of  one  of  those  pauses  in  conver- 
sation which  so  frequently  happen,  to  commence  my  attack : it  would 
be  as  painful  to  you  as  me,  to  recapitulate  all  which  ensued  in 
consequence  of  it.  Rage,  guilt  and  confusion  were  conspicuous  in  tlie 
marchioness  and  Lady  Euphrasia  : the  marquis  and  Lady  Greystock 
looked  with  astonishment,  and  my  father  seemed  overwhelmed  Avith 
surprise  and  consternation. 

I said  (addressing  the  marcliioness)  I noAV  trusted  the  resentment 
her  ladyship  entertained  against  her  unoifending  niece  Avas  sufficiently 
a})peased  by  Avhat  she  had  made  her  suffer,  and  that  she  Avould  rather 
rejoice  than  regret  the  opportunity  that  presented  itself  of  vindicating 
her  ffime.  I Avished,  I said,  as  much  as  possible,  to  spare  her  lady- 
ship’s feelings,  and,  provided  she  Avould  clear  Miss  Eitzalan  frr:r.  the 
obloquy  Avhich  the-  transactions  in  her  house  cast  upon  her,  I Avas 
Aviiling  to  conceal  the  share  her  ladyship  had  in  them.  In  a voice  of 
smothered  rage,  and  with  a look  into  Avhich  she  threAV  as  mucli  con- 
tempt as  possible,  she  replied,  “ She  thanked  me  for  the  attention  I 
professed  myself  inclined  to  pay  her  feelings  ; but  she  fancied  I had 
OA'erlooked  all  inclination  of  this  kind,  when  I undertook  to  bribe  lier 
servants  to  asperse  her  character,  that  Miss  Eitzalan  might  be  cleared. 
She  was  sorry,  she  said,  to  find  I could  be  capable  of  such  complica- 
ted baseness  and  weakness.  Miss  Eitzalan,  she  perceived,  Lai  Uiade 
me  her  dupe  again ; but  this  Avas  not  surprising,  as  she  Avas  thu  pro- 
fessed pupil  of  art ; too  late  I should  behold  her  in  her  native  colours, 
and  find  the  disgrace,  Avhich,  by  artifice,  I no'w  attempt  to  remoA^o 
from  her  character,  throAvn  back  upon  her,  perhaps  to  overAvhelm  me 
also  by  its  weight.” — “ She  has  infatuated  him  (said  Lord  Oherbury,) 
she  will  be  the  bane  of  his  life,  tlie  destruction  of  ray  hopes.” 

“Not  Miss  Eitzalan,  (cried  I,  assuming  as  much  coolness  as  possi- 
ble, though,  like  the  marchioness,  I found  it  a difficult  task,)  not  Miss 
Eitzalan,  but  the  enemies  of  Miss  Eitzalan  deceived  me.  I OAvn  I 
was  the  dupe  of  the  scheme  contrived  against  her  : anything  so 
horrid,  so  monstrous,  so  execrable,  I did  not  thr.'.k  could  have 
entered  the  minds  of  those  aa'Iio  Avere  bound  by  the  united  ties  of 
kindred  and  hospitality  to  protect  her,  and  I rather  believed  I OAved 
my  misery  to  the  frailty  than  the  turpitude  of  human  nature.” 

“You  see,  my  lord,  (exclaimed  the  marchioness,  turning  to  Lord 
Cherbury,)  Lord  Mortimer  acknoAvledges  his  passion  for  thin  Avretched 
girl.” 

“ I do,  (cried  I,)  I glory  in  confessing  it.  In  loving  Mien  Eitzalan 
I love  virtue  itself:  in  acknowledging  a passion  for  her,  I violate  n<.' 
faith,  I break  no  engagement;  my  heart  ever  resisted  entoii.ng  into 
any  Avhich  it  could  not  fulfil.” 

“ Unfortunate  proposition  (said  Lord  Cherbury,  sternly:)  hrt  v^hy, 
why,  Avlien  you  believed  her  guilty,  Avere  you  so  infatuated  as  to  fol- 
loAA'  her  to  Ireland?  Why  not  caimly  resign  her  to  the  infamy  slie 
merited?” 


884 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


‘‘I  followed  lier,  my  lord,  (I  replied)  in  hope  to  wltlidraw  her  from 
her  seducer’s  arms,  and  place  her  in  her  father’s.  I hoped,  I trusted, 
I should  be  able,  also,  to  alleviate  the  bitter  destiny  of  poor  Fitzalan’s : 
alas ! not  in  the  arms  of  a gay,  successful  seducer,  but  apparently  in 
the  arms  of  death,  did  I find  Amanda.  I saw  her  at  the  solemn  hour 
W'hich  consigned  her  parent  to  his  grave,  and  to  have  doubted  her 
protestations  of  innocence  then,  would  have  been  almost  impious. 
Gracious  Heaven ! how  impossible  to  disbelieve  her  truth  at  the  very 
moment  her  gentle  spirit  seemed  about  to  take  its  flight  to  heaven ! 
From  that  period  she  has  stood  acquitted  in  my  mind,  and  from  that 
period  I determined  to  develope,  to  tlie  utmost  of  my  power,  the 
machinations  Avhich  had  made  me  doubt  her  innocence.  My  success 
in  their  development  has  been  beyond  my  expectations:  but  Pro- 
vidence is  on  the  side  of  suffering  virtue,  and  assists  those  who  stand 
up  in  its  support. 

“ Contrary  to  my  first  intention,  my  dear  Amanda,  I have  given 
you  a sketch  of  part  of  our  conversation.  For  the  remainder  it  shall 
suffice  ro  say,  that  the  marchioness  persevered  in  declaring  I had- 
bribed  her  servants  to  blacken  her  character,  in  order  to  clear  Miss 
Fitzalan’s : l>il  attempt  which  she  repeatedly  assured  me  I would  find 
unsuccessful. 

‘‘  The  marquis  talked  in  high  terms  of  the  dignity  of  his  house,  and 
how  impossible  it  was  the  marchioness  should  ever  have  disgraced  it 
by  such  actions  as  I accused  her  of  committing.  I answered  him  in 
a immner  equally  warm,  that  my  accusations  were  too  well  grounded 
and  supported  to  dread  refutation:  that  it  was  not  only  due  to  injured 
innocence,  but  essential  to  my  own  honour,  which  would  soon  be 
materially  concerned  in  whatever  related  to  Miss  Fitzalan,  to  have 
those  accusations  made  public,  if  her  ladyship  refused  to  contradict 
the  aspersion  which  might  be  thrown  upon  Miss  Fitzalan,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  scene  which  passed  at  his  lordship’s  house. 

“ This  the  marchioness,  with  mingled  rage  and  contempt,  refused 
doing,  and  Lady  Euphrasia,  after  the  hint  I gave  of  soon  being  united 
to  you,  left  the  room  in  convulsive  agitation. 

‘"Lord  Oherbury,  I perceived,  suspected  foul  play,  by  some 
speeches  which  dropped  from  him ; such  as  if  there  had  been  any 
misunderstanding  between  her  ladyship  and  Miss  Fitzalan,  it  was 
better  surely  to  have  it  done  away ; or  certainly,  if  any  mistake  was 
proved  relative  to  the  affair  which  happened  in  her  ladyship’s  house, 
it  was  but  justice  to  the  young  lady  to  have  it  cleared  up. 

“ Yet,  notwithstanding  the  interest  he  felt  in  the  cause  of  suffering 
innocence,  it  Avas  obvious  to  me  that  he  dreaded  a rupture  Avith  the 
marquis’s  family,  and  appeared  shocked  at  the  unequivocal  declaration 
I had  made  of  never  being  allied  to  it. 

“ Lady  Martha  Dormer  took  the  cause.  The  testimony  Lord  Mor- 
timer had  received,  she  said,  of  Miss  Fitzalan’s  innocence,  Avas  incon- 
trovertible, and  exempted  him  alike  from  being  stigmatized  either  as 
the  dupe  of  art  or  love;  humanity,  she  Avas  convinced,  exclusive  of 
every  Avarmer  feeling,  Avould  have  influenced  him  to  have  undertaken 
Miss  Fitzalan’s  cause ; it  Avas  the  cause  of  innocence  and  virtue,  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


885 


cause  in  wliich  every  detester  of  scandal  and  treachery  should  join^ 
Bine©  not  only  the  defenceless  orphan,  but  the  protected  child  of  rank 
and  prosperity  were  vulnerable  to  their  shafts. 

“ I again  repeated  the  evidence  of  her  servants,  and  the  refutation 
of  Mrs.  Jennings  to  her  former  story ; I produced  to  strengthen  it,  tho 
unopened  letters  of  Colonel  Belgrave — thus  continuing  to  put  pr  )of 
upon  proof  of  your  innocence  (as  Sancho  Panza  says)  upon  the 
shoulders  of  demonstration. 

The  passions  of  the  marchioness  rose  at  last  to  frantic  violence. 
She  persisted  in  alleging  her  integrity  and  villifying  yours  ; but  with 
a countenance  so  legibly  impressed  with  guilt  and  confusion,  that  a 
doubt  of  her  falsehood  could  not  be  entertained,  even  by  those  who 
wished  to  doubt  it. 

‘‘  The  scene  of  violence  we  now  became  witness  to,  was  painful  to 
me,  and  shocking  to  Lady  Martha;  I therefore  ordered  the  horses, 
immediately  to  her  ladyship’s  chariot,  in  which,  accompanied  by  me, 
she  had  preceded  Lord  Olierbury’s  coach,  from  the  idea  that  our 
continuance  at  the  villa  might  not  be  quite  so  long  as  his  lordship’s. 

‘‘  As  we  expected,  his  lordship  staid  behind,  with  the  hope,  I per- 
ceived, of  being  able  to  calm  the  perturbations  of  the  marchioness, 
and  lessen  the  breach  between  us.  He  returned  the  next  day  to  town. 
I have  so  long  dwelt  upon  disagreeable  scenes,  that  to  go  over  any 
others  would  be  dreadful ; nor  should  I hint  to  you  that  I had  such 
Beenes  to  encounter,  was  it  not  to  excuse  and  account  to  you  for  my 
absence  from  Castle  Oarberry  ; our  diiRculties  (you  see  I already  unite 
your  interests  with  mine)  began  to  decrease,  and  are  at  last  happily 
overcome.  Lady  Martha  made  me  write  her  intentions  relative  to 
you,  and  his  lordship  was  quite  satisfied  with  them.  He  authorizes 
me  to  assure  you  he  longs  to  receive  you  into  his  family,  at  once  a 
boast  and  acquisition  to  it,  and  he  says,  he  shall  consider  himself 
under  obligations  to  you,  if  you  hasten,  as  much  as  possible,  the 
period  of  becoming  one  of  its  members,  thus  giving  him  an  opportu- 
nity of  making  early  amends,  by  attention  to  the  daughter,  for  tho 
injustice  he  did  the  father. 

Lady  Martha  Dormer’s  intentions  I have  only  hinted  to  you ; in 
the  letter,  which  I have  the  pleasure  of  enclosing,  she  is  more  explicit 
concerning  them.  I have  given  you  this  long  narrative  on  paper, 
that  when  we  meet,  our  conversation  may  be  unembittered  by  any 
painful  retrospect,  and  that  we  may  enjoy  uninterrupted  the  bright 
prospect  which  now  lies  before  us. 

“ But,  ere  I close  my  letter,  I must  inform  you  that  knowing  you 
could  never  be  selfishly  wrapped  up  in  your  own  enjoyments,  Tmade 
every  possible  inquiry  relative  to  your  brother,  and  was  at  length 
referred  by  the  agent  of  his  late  regiment  to  an  officer  in  it : with 
some  difficulty  I found  he  had  quitted  his  quarters  on  leave  of  absence. 
I wrote  immediately  to  his  family  residence,  and,  after  waiting  long 
and  impatiently  for  an  answer  to  my  letter,  I dispatched  a special  mes- 
senger to  learn  whether  he  was  there  or  not.  The  courier  returned 
with  a polite  note  from  the  ofiicer’s  father,  informing  me  his  son 

17 


386 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDEY. 


was  gone  on  an  excursion  of  pleasure  with  some  friends,  and  that  if 
he  knew  where  to  find  him  he  would  have  transmitted  my  letter, 
which  I might  depend  on  being  answered  the  moment  he  returned. 

“ I have  no  doubt  but  we  shall  receive  intelligence  from  him  con- 
cerning Mr.  Fitzalan ; it  shall  then  be  our  business,  if  his  situation  is 
not  already  pleasing  to  change  it,  or  render  it  as  much  more  so  as 
possible  to  him. 

“Keep  up  your  spirits  therefore  about  him,  for  by  the  time  we 
arrive  in  England  I expect  a letter  from  his  friend,  and  let  me  not  he 
any  more  pained  by  seeing  your  countenance  clouded  with  care  or 
anxiety. 

“ As  a reward  for  reining  in  my  impatience  to  see  you  this  evening, 
he  propitious  to  my  request  for  early  admission  to-morrow  ; if  chari- 
table, you  will  allow  me  to  breakfast  with  you,  for  I shall  take  none 
except  with  you,  and,  without  an  express  command  to  the  contrary, 
shall  take  it  for  granted  I am  expected. 

“ ’Tis  said  that  contrast  heightens  pleasure,  and  I believe  the  say- 
ing. I believe  that  without  having  felt  pain  in  all  its  acuteness  as  I 
have  done,  I never  should  have  felt  such  pleasure  as  I now  enjoy. 
After  so  often  giving  you  up,  so  often  lamenting  you  as  lost  forever, 
to  think  I shall  soon  call  you  mine  is  a source  of  transport  which 
words  cannot  express.  Mine,  I may  say,  is  the  resurrection  of  happi- 
ness, for  has  it  not  been  revived  from  the  very  grave  of  despair  ? 
But  I forget  that  you  have  Lady  Martha  Dormer’s  letter  still  to 
peruse.  I acknowledge  that,  for  old  friendship’s  sake,  I supposed  you 
would  give  mine  the  preference  ; but  in  all  reason  it  is  time  I should 
resign  my  place  to  her  ladyship.  But  ere  I bid  you  adieu,  I must  tell 
you  that  Araminta  is  a sincere  participator  in  our  happiness;  she 
arrived  from  Wales  but  a few  minutes  previous  to  my  leaving  Lon- 
don, and  I would  not  allow  her  time,  as  she  wished,  to  write  to  you. 
I almost  forgot  to  tell  you,  that  the  marquis’s  family,  amongst  whom 
Lady  Greystock  is  still  numbered,  instead  of  returning  to  town,  set 
out  for  Brighthelmstone : I have  learned,  contrary  to  my  and  their 
expectations,  that  neither  the  housekeeper  nor  Mrs.  Jane  have  been 
dismissed,  but  both  sent  to  a distant  seat  of  the  marquis’s.  As  wo 
know  the  marchioness’s  revengeful  disposition,  it  is  plain  she  has 
some  secret  motive  for  not  gratifying  it  immediately  by  their  dismis- 
sion ; but  what  it  is,  can  be  of  little  consequence  for  us  to  learn, 
since  we  are  both  too  well  guarded  to  sutler  from  any  future  plot  of 
hers ; like  every  other  which  was  formed  against  my  dear  Amanda, 
I trust  they  will  ever  prove  abortive.  I was  disturbed,  Avithin  a few 
miles  of  Castle  Oarberry,  by  a gentleman  passing  on  horseback,  Avho 
either  strongly  resembled,  or  Avas  Colonel  Belgrave.  My  blood  boiled 
in  my  veins  at  his  sight;  I left  the  carriage,  mounted  one  of  my  ser- 
vant’s horses,  and  endeavoured  to  overtake  him.  He  certainly 
avoided  me  by  taking  some  cross-road,  as  his  speed  could  not  have 
outstripped  mine;  my  efforts  to  discover  his  habitation  Avere  equally 
unsuccessful.  As  to  your  personal  security  I had  no  apprehensions, 
having  heard  constantly  from  my  good  friend  the  doctor  about  you; 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


387 


but  I dreaded  the  wretch,  if  it  were  really  him,  might  disturb  your 
tranquillity,  either  by  forcing  into  your  presence,  or  writing;  thank 
heaven,  from  all  intrusions  or  dangers  of  this  kind,  my  Amanda  will 
now  be  guarded ; but  again  am  I trespassing  on  the  time  you  sliould 
devote  to  Lady  Martha’s  letter.  Adieu,  and  do  not  disappoint  my 
hopes  of  being  allowed  to  visit  you  early. 

“ Mortimer.” 

Amanda  perused  this  letter  with  emotions  which  can  be  better  con- 
ceived than  described.'  She  could  scarcely  have  parted  with  it  with- 
out a second  reading,  had  not  Lady  Martha’s  demanded  her  attention ; 
she  snatched  it  hastily  from  the  ground  where  it  hitherto  lay 
neglected  and  read  to  the  folio Vtdng  purpose. 

“ That  I warmly  and  sincerely  congratulate  my  dear  and  amiable 
Miss  Fitzalan  on  the  happy  revolution  in  her  affairs  she  will  readily 
believe,  persuaded  as  she  must  be  of  the  deep  interest  I take  in  what- 
ever concerns  a person  on  Avhom  the  happiness  of  him  whom  I have 
loved  from  childhood  so  materially,  so  entirely,  I may  say,  depends. 

“Yet  do  not  suppose  me,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  so  sellish,  as  not 
to  be  able  to  rejoice  at  your  happiness  on  your  own  account,  exclusive 
of  every  consideration  relative  to  Lord  Mortimer : long  since  I was 
taught  by  description  to  esteem  and  admire  you,  and  even  when  the 
hope  of  being  connected  with  you  became  extinct,  I could  not  so 
totally  forego  that  admiration,  as  to  feel  uninterested  about  you. 
Oh ! how  truly  do  I rejoice  at  the  revival  of  the  hope  I have  just 
mentioned,  and  at  its  revival  with  every  prospect  of  its  being  speedily 
realized!  I shall  consider  Lord  Mortimer  as  one  of  the  most  fortunate 
of  men  in  calling  you  his,  and  to  think  I have  been  able  to  promote 
his  happiness  gives  me  a satisfaction  which  never  was,  nor  ever  will 
be  equalled  by  any  circumstance  in  my  life. 

“ Though  I cannot  give  my  adopted  daughter  a fortune  by  any 
means  equal  to  that  which  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland  will  possess, 
Lord  Cherbury  is  fully  sensible  that  her  perfections  will  abundantly 
make  up  for  any  deficiency  in  this  respect.  Ten  thousand  pounds, 
and  one  thousand  a year,  is  at  present  to  be  her  portion,  and  the 
reversion  of  the  remainder  of  my  fortune  is  to  be  secured  to  her  and 
Lord  Mortimer:  the  final  adjustment  of  all  affairs  is  to  take  place  at 
my  house  in  the  country,  Avhither  I propose  going  immediately 
accompanied  by  Lady  Araminta,  and  wdiere  we  shall  both  most  impa- 
tiently expect  your  arrival,  which  we  mutually  entreat  may  be  has- 
tened as  much  as  possible,  consistent  with  your  health  and 
convenience:  Lord  Cherbury  has  promised  to  follow  us  in  a few  days, 
so  that  I suppose  he  will  alv , be  at  Thornbury,  to  receive  you. 
Would  to  heaven,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  injured  virtue  and  innocence 
may  always  meet  with  such  champions  to  vindicate  them  as  Lord 
Mortimer!  was  that  the  case,  we  should  see  many  lovely  victims  of 
scorn  and  reproach  raising  their  heads  with  triumph  and  satisfaction. 


388 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY* 


But  pardon  my  involuntarily  adverting  to  past  sc«^nes,  though  at  the 
same  time  I think  you  have  reason  to  rejoice  at  your  trials,  which 
served  as  so  many  tests  and  proofs  of  the  estimable  qualities  you 
possess.  Farewell,  my  dear  Miss  Fitzalan ; I have  been  brief  in  my 
letter,  because  I know  I should  not  be  pardoned  by  a certain  person 
if  I engrossed  too  much  of  your  time.  I told  him  I would  give  you 
a hint  of  the  impetuosity  of  his  disposition ; but  he  told  me,  perhaps 
to  prevent  this,'  that  you  were  already  acquainted  with  it.  In  one 
instance  1 shall  commend  him  for  displaying  it,  that  is  in  hastening 
you  to  Thornbury,  to  the  arms  of  your  atfectionate  friend, 

Martha  Dormer.” 

Amanda’s  happiness  vras  now  almost  as  great  as  it  could  be  in  this 
world  ; almost  I say,  for  it  received  alloy  from  the  melancholy  con- 
sideration that  her  father,  that  faithful  and  affectionate  friend  who 
had  shared  her  troubles,  could  not  be  a partaker  of  her  joys ; but 
the  sigh  of  unavailing  regret  which  rose  in  her  mind,  she  checked, 
by  reflecting,  that  happiness  all-perfect  was  more  than  humanity 
could  eitljer  support  or  expect,  and  with  pious  gratitude  she  bent  to 
the  Power  who  had  changed  the  discoloured  prospect,  by  which  she 
had  been  so  long  surrounded,  into  one  of  cheerfulness  and  beauty. 

If  her  pride  was  wounded  by  the  hint,  though  so  delicately  con- 
veyed, which  Lord  Mortimer  had  given  of  the  difliculties  he  encoun- 
tered in  gaining  Lord  Cherbury’s  approbation,  it  was  instantly  relieved 
by  the  flattering  commendations  of  Lady  Martha  Dormer,  and  to  be 
connected  with  her  and  Lady  Araminta,  she  looked  upon  amongst 
the  most  valuable  blessings  she  could  enjoy. 

To  express  what  she  felt  for  Lord  Mortimer  was  impossible  ; 
language  could  not  do  justice  to  her  feelings  : she  felt  love,  gratitude 
and  admiration  for  him,  all  in  the  fullest  extent,  and  all  united,  and 
she  wept  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart  over  the  joyful  assurance  of 
being  his.  With  the  two  letters  in  her  hand  she  repaired  to  the 
prioress’s  apartment,  whom  she  found  alone.  The  good  old  lady  saw 
the  traces  of  tears  on  Amanda’s  face,  and  exclaimed,  in  a voice  which 
evinced  her  sympathy  in  her  concerns,  “Oh!  I fear,  my  child,  some- 
thing has  happened  to  disturb  you!”  Amanda  presented  her  the 
letters,  and  bid  her  judge  from  them  whether  she  had  not  reason  to 
be  agitated.  As  the  prioress  read,  her  sudden  and  broken  exclama- 
tions manifested  her  surprise  and  pleasure,  and  frequently  were  her 
spectacles  removed  to  wipe  from  off  them  the  tears  of  joy  by  wfliicli 
they  were  bedewed.  AYlien  she  had  finished  the  w^elcome  packet, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


389 


slie  turned  to  Amanda,  wlio  had  been  attentively  watching  ..Be 
varioQS  turns  in  hei  countenance,  and  gave  her  a congratulatory 
embrace.  “Lord  Mortimer  is  worthy  of  you,  my  child,”  said  the 
prioress,  “and  that  is  the  higliest  eulogium  I can  pass  on  him.” 
After  commenting  upon  different  parts  of  the  letter,*  she  asked 
Amanda,  a little  archly,  “whether  she  intended  sending  an  express 
command  to  his  lordship  against  coming  early  in  the  morning?” 
Amanda  honestly  confessed  she  had  no  such  intention,  and  expressed 
her  wish  to  behold  him.  The  prioress  said  she  would  have  breakfast 
prepared  for  them  in  the  garden  parlour,  and  that  she  would  take 
care  they  should  not  he  interrupted.  She  also  promised  to  keep 
every  thing  secret,  till  matters  were  arranged  for  Amanda’s  removal 
from  St.  Catharine’s. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign ; 

And  shall  we  never — never  part, 

Oh  I thou  my  all  that’s  mine. 

GOLDSi-JTn. 


Joy  is  as  great  an  enemy  to  repose  as  anxiety.  Amanda  passed  an 
almost  sleepless  night,  but  her  thoughts  were  too  agreeably  employed 
to  allow  her  to  suffer  for  want  of  rest ; early  as  she  rose  in  the  morn- 
ing, she  was  but  a short  time  in  the  parlour  before  Lord  Mortimer 
arrived.  He  appeared  with  all  the  transports  of  his  soul  beaming 
from  his  eyes,  and  was  received  by  Amanda  with  tender  and 
trembling  emotion.  He  caught  her  to  his  heart  as  a treasure  restored 
to  him  by  the  immediate  hand  of  Heaven.  He  pressed  her  to  it  with 
silent  exstacy.  Both  for  a few  moments  were  unable  to  speak ; but 
the  tears  which  burst  from  Amanda,  and  those  that  stopped  on  the 
glowing  cheeks  of  Lord  Mortimer,  expressed  their  feelings  more 
forcibly  than  any  Ifiiiguage  could  have  done. 

Amanda  at  length  found  utterance,  and  began  to  thank  his  lordship 
for  all  the  difficulties  he  had  gone  through  in  vindicating  her  fame. 


890 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


He  hastily  stopped  those  cffusioiis  of  gratitude,  by  bidding  her  asK 
her  heart  whether  he  had  not  been  serving  himself  as  well  as  her  by 
what  he  had  done. 

From  the  soft  confusion  into  which  his  transports  threw  her, 
Amanda  endeavoured  to  recover  herself  by  repairing  to  the  breakfast 
table,  on  which  the  good  sisters  had  spread  all  the  niceties  (adapted 
to  a morning  repast)  which  the  convent  could  produce  ; but  her  hand 
was  unsteady,  she  spilt  the  tea  in  pouring  it  out,  and  committed 
twenty  blunders  in  helping  Lord  Mortimer.  He  laughed  a little 
archly  at  her  embarrassment,  and  insisted  on  doing  the  honours  of 
the  table  himself,  to  which  Amanda  with  a blush  consented;  but 
breakfast  was  little  attended  to.  Amanda’s  hand  was  detained  in 
Lord  Mortimer’s  while  his  eyes  were  continually  turning  towards  her, 
as  if  to  assure  his  heart  that  in  the  lovely  evidence  of  his  happiness 
there  was  no  deception ; and  the  tenderness  Amanda  had  no  longer 
reason  to  restrain,  beamed  from  her  looks,  which  also  evinced  her 
perfect  sensibility  of  her  present  felicity — a felicity  heightened  by 
her  approving  conscience  testifying  she  had  merited  it.  The  pui-e, 
the  delightful  satisfaction  resulting  from  this  reflection  gave  such 
radiance  to  her  complexion,  that  Lord  Mortimer  repeatedly  declared 
her  residence  at  St.  Catharine’s  had  made  her  more  beautiful  than 
ever.  Twelve  o’clock  struck,  and  found  them  still  loitering  over  the 
breakfast  table.  “The  nuns  will  think  we  have  made  a tolerable 
feast,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  smiling,  wdiile  Amanda  arose  with  pre- 
cipitation. “ I need  not,”  continued  he,  following  her,  “ like  Sterne, 
ask  nature  what  has  made  the  meal  so  delicious,  I need  only  ask  my 
own  heart,  and  it  will  inform  me,  love  and  tenderness.”  Amanda 
blushed,  and  they  went  together  into  the  garden.  She  would  have 
walked  before  the  windows  of  the  convent,  but  Lord  Mortimer  forced 
her  gently  into  a dark  sequestered  alley.  Here  tlieir  conversation 
became  more  connected  than  it  had  hitherto  been!  the  generous 
intentions  of  Lady  Martha  Dormer,  and  the  arrangement  she  had 
made  for  the  reception  and  nuptials  of  Amanda,  w^ere  talked  over; 
the  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  Thornbury,  Lady  Martha’s  seat; 
they  were  to  continue  there  for  a month  after  its  solemnization,  and 
from  thence  to  go  to  an  estate  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  for  the  remainder 
of  the  summer ; a house  in  one  of  the  squares  was  to  be  taken  and 
prepared  for  their  residence  in  winter,  and  Lady  Martlia  Doi’Uier  had 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


391 


promised,  whenever  she  came  to  town,  which  was  hut  seldom,  she 
would  make  their  house  her  home,  provided  they  would  promise  to 
spend  every  Christmas,  and  three  months  at  least  in  summer,  with 
her  at  Thornbury : Lord  Mortimer  said  he  had  his  choice  of  any  o^ 
the  Earl’s  seats,  hut  chose  none,  from  an  idea  of  the  Hall  being  more 
agreeable  to  Amanda.  She  assured  him  it  was,  and  he  proceeded  to 
mention  the  presents  which  Lady  Martha  had  prepared  for  her;  also 
the  carriages  and  retinue  he  had  provided,  and  expected  to  find  at 
Thornbury  against  she  reached  it,  still  asking  if  the  arrangements  he 
had  made  met  her  approbation. 

Amanda  was  affected,  even  to  tears,  by  the  solicitude  he  showed  to 
please  her,  and  he,  perceiving  her  emotions,*  changed  the  discourse  to 
talk  about  her  removal  from  St.  Catharine’s ; he  entreated  her  not  ta 
delay  it  longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary  to  adjust  matters  for  it. 
Sne  promised  compliance  to  his  entreaty,  acknowledging  that  she  but 
obeyed  her  inclinations  in  doing  so,  as  she  longed  to  be  presented  to 
Lsr  generous  patroness.  Lady  Martha,  and  to  her  amiable  and  beloved 
i ady  Araminta. 

Lord  Mortimer,  delicately  considerate  about  all  which  concerned 
her,  begged  she  would  speak  to  the  prioress  to  procure  a decent 
lemale,  who  should  be  a proper  attendant  for  her  journey;  they 
thould  travel  together  in  one  chaise,  and  he  would  follow  them  in 
imother.  Amanda  promised  she  would  lose  no  time  in  making  this 
request,  which,  she  had  no  doubt,  would  be  successful. 

Lord  Mortimer  presented  her  with  a very  beautiful  embroidered 
purse,  containing  notes  to  the  amount  of  five  hundred  poun*ds. 
Amanda  blushed  deeply,  and  felt  her  feelings  a little  hurt  at  the  idea 
of  being  obliged  to  Lord  Mortimer  for  everything.  He  pressed  her 
iiand,  and,  in  a voice  of  soothing  tenderness,  told  her  he  should  be 
offended  if  she  did  not  from  this  moment  consider  her  interest  insepa- 
rable from  his.  The  notes,  he  said,  of  right  belonged  to  her,  as  they 
amounted  to  but  the  individual  sum  he  had  already  devoted  to  her 
use.  He  requested  she  would  not  curb  in  the  least  her  generous 
spirit,  but  fulfil  in  the  utniost  extent  all  the  claims  which  gratitude 
bad  upon  her.  The  benevolent  sisters  of  St.  Catharine’s  were  the 
fcrc’  vost  in  the  list  of  those  who  had  conferred  obligations  upon  her, 
and  he  desired  she  would  not  only  reward  them  liberally  at  present; 
but  promise  them  an  annual  stipend  of  fifty  pounds. 


392 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


Amanda  was  truly  delighted  at  this ; to  he  able  to  contribute  to 
the  comfort  of  those  who  had  so  largely  promoted  hers,  was  a source 
of  exquisite  felicity. — ^Lord  Mortimer  presented  her  with  his  picture, 
which  he  had  drawn  in  London  for  that  purpose;  it  was  a striking 
likeness,  and  most  elegantly  set  with  brilliants  which  formed  a cypher 
upon  a plait  of  hmr  at  the  back.  This  was  indeed  a precious  present 
to  Amanda,  and  she  acknowledged  it  was  such.  Lord  Mortimer  said, 
that  in  return  for  it  he  should  expect  hers  at  some  future  time ; but 
added,  smiling,  ‘‘  I shall  not  heed  the  shadow  till  I procure  the  sub- 
stance.” He  also  gave  her  a very  beautiful  ring,  with  an  emblem- 
atical device,  and  adorned  in  the  same  manner  as  his  picture,  which 
Lady  Martha  had  sent  as  a pledge  of  future  friendship ; and  he  now 
informed  her,  that  her  ladyship,  accompanied  by  Lady  Araminta, 
intended  meeting  them  at  Holyhead,  that  all  due  honour  and  attention 
might  be  paid  to  her  adopted  daughter. 

In  the  midst  of  their  conversation,  the  dinner  bell  rang  from  the 
convent.  Amanda  started,  and  declared  she  had  not  supposed  it 
half  so  late.  The  arch  smile  which  this  speech  occasioned  in  Lord 
Mortimer,  instantly  made  her  perceive  it  had  been  a tacit  confession 
of  the  pleasure  she  enjoyed  in  their  t^te-a-tete. 

She  blushed,  and  telling  him  she  could  not  stay  another  moment, 
was  hurrying  away.  He  hastily  caught  her,  and  holding  both  her 
hands,  declared  she  should  not  depart,  neither  would  he  to  his  soli- 
tary dinner,  till  she  promised  he  might  return  to  her  early  in  the 
evening.  To  this  she  consented,  provided  he  allowed  her  to  have 
the  prioress  and  sister  Mary  at  least  at  tea.  This  was  a condition 
Lord  Mortimer  by  no  means  liked  to  agree  to,  and  he  endeavoured 
to  prevail  on  her  to  drop  it ; but,  finding  her  indexible,  he  said  she 
was  a provoking  girl,  and  asked  her  if  she  was  not  afraid  that,  when 
he  had  the  power,  he  would  retaliate  upon  her  for  all  the  trials  she 
had  put  his  patience  to ; but  since  she  would  have  it  so,  why  it  must 
be  so  to  be  sure,  he  said ; but  he  hoped  the  good  ladies  would  have  too 
much  conscience  to  sit  out  the  whole  evening  with  them.  That  was 
all  chance,  Amanda  said.  The  bell  again  rang,  and  he  was  forced  to 
depart. 

She  took  the  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  the  prioress  for  a few 
minutes,  to  speak  to  her  about  procuring  a female  to  attend  her  in  her 
journey.  The  prioress  said^  she  doubted  not  but  she  could  procure 


OnilDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


893 


her  ail  eligible  pers(fii  from  the  neighbouring  town,  and  promised  to 
write  there  that  very  evening,  to  a family  who  would  be  al)le  to  assist 
her  inquiries. 

Both  she  and  sister  Mary  were  much  pleased  by  being  invited 
to  drink  tea  with  Lord  Mortimer.  He  came  even  earlier  than  was 
expected.  Poor  Amanda  was  terrified,  lest  her  companions  should 
overhear  him  repeatedly  asking  her  whether  ttiey  would  not  retire 
immediately  after  tea? ' Though  not  overheard,  the  prioress  had  too 
much  sagacity  not  to  know  her  departure  was  desired ; She  therefore, 
under  pretence  of  business,  retired,  and  took  Mary  along  with  her. 
Amanda  and  Lord  Mortimer  went  into  the  garden.  He  thanked  her 
for  not  losing  time  in  speaking  to  the  prioress  about  her  servant,  and 
said  that  he  hoped,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  at  farthest,  she  would  be 
able  to  begin  her  journey.  Amanda  readily  promised  to  use  all  pos- 
sible despatch.  They  passed  some  delightful  hours  in  rambling  about 
the  garden,  and  talking  over  their  felicity. 

The  prioress’  expectation  was  answered  relative  to  a servant;  in  the 
course  of  two  days  she  produced  one  in  every  respect  agreeable 
to  Amanda,  and  things  were  now  in  such  forwardness  for  her  depart- 
ure, that  she  expected  it  would  take  place  as  soon  as  Lord  Mortimei 
had  mentioned.  His  time  was  passed  almost  continually  at  St. 
Catharine’s,  never  leaving  it  except  at  dinner-time,  when  he  went  to 
Castle  Carberry;  his  residence  there  was  soon  known,  and  visitors 
and  invitations  without  number  came  to  the  castle,  but  he  found 
means  of  avoiding  them. 

Amanda,  laughing,  would  often  tell  him  he  retarded  the  prepara- 
tion for  her  journey  by  being  always  with  her;  this,  he  said,  was  only 
a pretext  to  drive  him  away,  for  that  he  rather  forwarded  them 
by  letting  her  lose  no  time. 

Lord  Mortimer,  on  coming  to  Amanda  one  evening  as  usual, 
appeared  uncommonly  discomposed;  his  face  was  flushed,  and  his 
whole  manner  betrayed  agitation.  He  scarcely  noticed  Amanda; 
but,  seating  himself,  placed  his  arm  upon  a table,  and  leaned  deject- 
edly upon  it.  Amanda  was  inexpressibly  shocked,  her  heart  panted 
with  apprehension  of  ill,  but  she  felt  too  timid  to  make  an  inquiry. 
He  suddenly  kjiit  his  brows,  and  muttered  betw  een  his  teeth,  ‘‘  curse 
on  the  wretch!” 


17* 


894 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Amar. da  could  no  longer  keep  silence:  “What  wretch T’  sho 
exclaimed,  “or  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  disorder !” 

“First  tell  me,  Amanda,”  said  he,  looking  very  steadfastly  at  her, 
“ have  you  seen  any  stranger  here  lately  ?” 

“Good  heavens!”  readied  she,  “what  can  you  mean  by  such  a 
question  ? hut  I solemnly  assure  you  I have  not.” 

“ Enough,”  said  he,  “ such  an  assurance  restores  me  to  quiet ; but, 
my  dear  Amanda,”  coming  over  to  her,  and  taking  her  hands  in  his, 
“ since  you  have  perceived  my  agitation,  I must  account  to  you  for  it. 
I have  just  seen  Belgrave;  he  was  hut  a few  yards  from  me  on  the 
common  when  I saw  him ; but  the  mean,  despicable  WTetch,  loaded  as 
he  is  with  conscious  guilt,  durst  not  face  me  : he  got  out  of  my  way 
by  leaping  over  the  hedge  which  divides  the  common  from  a lane 
with  many  intricate  windings : I endeavoured,  but  without  success,  to 
discover  the  one  he  had  retreated  through.” 

“ I see,”  said  Amanda,  pale  and  trembling,  “ he  is  destined  to  make 
me  wretched.  I had  hoped  indeed  that  Lord  Mortimer  would  no  more 
have  suffered  his  quiet  to  be  interrupted  by  him ; it  implies  such  a 
doubt,”  said  she,  weeping,  “ as  shocks  my  soul ! If  suspicion  is  thus 
continually  to  be  revived,  we  had  better  separate  at  once,  for  misery 
must  be  the  consequence  of  a union  without  mutual  confidence.” 

“ Gracious  heaven!”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “ how  unfortunate  I am 
to  give  you  pain ! You  mistake  entirely,  indeed,  my  dearest  Amanda, 
tire  cause  of  my  uneasiness ; I swear  by  all  that  is  sacred,  no  doubt, 
no  suspicion  of  your  worth  has  arisen  in  my  mind.  ISTo  man  can 
think  more  highly  of  a woman  than  I do  of  you  : but  I was  disturbed 
lest  the  wretch  should  have  forced  himself  into  your  presence,  and 
lest  you,  through  apprehension  for  me,  concealed  it  from  me.” 

The  exclamation  calmed  the  perturbation  of  Amanda ; as  an  atone- 
ment for  the  uneasiness  he  had  given  her,  she  wanted  Lord  Mortimer 
to  promise  he  would  not  endeavour  to  discover  Belgrave.  This  pro- 
mise he  avoided  giving,  and  Amanda  was  afraid  of  pressing  it,  lest 
the  spark  of  jealousy,  which  she  was  convinced  existed  in  the  dispo- 
sition of  Lord  Mortimer,  should  be  blown  into  a flame.  Tliat  Bel- 
grave would  studiously  avoid  him  she  trusted,  and  she  resolved,  that 
if  the  things  she  had  deemed  it  necessary  to  order  from  the  neigh- 
bouring town  were  not  finished,  to  wait  no  longer  for  them,  as  she 


€,1£ILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


895 


ioBged  u 3W  more  thai^  ever  to  quit  a place  she  tliouglit  dangerous  to 
Lord  Mortimer.  The  ensuing  morning,  instead  of  seeing  his  lordship 
at  breakfast,  a note  was  brought  to  her,  couched  in  these  words. 

“to  miss  fitzalan. 

“ I am  unavoidably  prevented  from  waiting  on  my  dear  Amanda 
this  morning,  hut  in  the  course  of  the  day  she  may  depend  on  either 
seeing  or  hearing  from  me  again.  She  can  have  no  excuse  now  on 
my  account  about  not  hastening  the  preparations  for  her  journey,  and 
when  we  meet,  if  I find  her  time  has  not  been  employed  to  this  pur- 
pose she  may  expect  a severe  chiding  from  her  faithful 

“Moetimer.” 

This  note  filled  Amanda  with  the  most  alarming  disquiet.  It  was 
evident  to  her  that  he  was  gone  in  pursuit  of  Belgrave.  She  ran  into  the 
hall  to  inquire  of  the  messenger  about  his  master,  but  he  was  gone. 
She  then  hastened  to  the  prioress,  and  communicated  her  apprehen- 
sions to  her.  The  prioress  endeavoured  to  calm  them,  by  assuring 
her  she  might  be  convinced  that  Belgrave  had  taken  too  many  pre- 
cautions to  be  discovered. 

Amanda’s  breakfast,  however,  remained  untouched,  and  her  things 
unpacked,  and  she  continued  the  whole  morning  the  picture  of 
anxiety,  impatiently  expecting  the  promised  visit  or  letter ; neither 
came,  and  she  resolved  to  send,  after  dinner,  the  old  gardener  to 
Castle  Carberry,  to  inquire  after  Lord  Mortimer.  While  she  was 
speaking  to  him  for  that  purpose,  the  maid  followed  her  into  tlie 
garden,  and  told  her  there  was  a messenger  in  the  parlour  from  Lord 
Mortimer.  She  fiew  thither ; but  what  words  can  express  her  sur- 
prise, when  the  supposed  messenger,  raising  a large  hat  which 
shadowed  his  face,  and  removing  his  handkerchief  which  he  had 
hitherto  held  up  to  it,  discovered  to  her  view  the  features  of  Lord 
Cherbury ! She  could  only  exclaim,  “ Gracious  heaven,  has  anything 
happened  to  Lord  Mortimer?”  ere  she  sunk  into  a chair  in  breathlesa 
agitation. 


396 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

My  heavy  heart, 

Tlie  prophetess  of  woe,  fortells  some  ill 
At  hand. 

I.OED  OnERBURY  hastened  to  support  and  calm  her  agitation,  by 
assuring  her  Lord  Mortimer  was  in  perfect  safety.  Kecovering  a lit- 
tle by  this  assertion,  she  asked  him  how  he  was  assured  of  this.  lie 
answered,  because  he  had  seen  him,  though  without  being  perceived 
by  him,  about  an  hour  ago.  Amanda,  restored  to  her  faculties,  by 
being  assured  he  was  uninjured,  began  to  reflect  on  the  suddenness 
of  Lord  Cherbury’s  visit.  She  would  have  flattered  herself  he  came 
to  introduce  her  to  his  family  himself,  had  not  his  looks  almost,  for- 
bid such  an  idea;  they  were  gloomy  and  disordered;  his  eyes  were 
fastened  on  her,  yet  he  appeared  unwilling  to  speak. 

Amanda  felt  herself  in  too  awkward  and  embarrassing  a situation 
to  break  the  unpleasant  silence.  At  last  Lord  Oherbury  suddenly 
exclaimed : Lord  Mortimer  does  not,  nor  must  not,  know  of  my 
being  here.” 

‘‘Must  not!”  repeated  Amanda  in  inconceivable  astonishment. 

“ Gracious  heaven ,”  said  Lord  Oherbury,  starting  from  the  chaii 
on  which  he  had  thrown  himself,  opposite  to  her,  “how  shall  I begin, 
how  shall  I tell  her?  Oh!  Miss  Fitzalan,”  he  continued,  approaching 
her,  “ I have  much  to  say,  and  you  have  much  to  hear,  which  will 
shock  you ; 1 believed  I could  better  in  an  interview  have  informed 
you  of  particulars,  but  I find  I was  mistaken.  I will  write  to  you.” 

“ My  lord,”  cried  Amanda,  rising,  all  pale  and  trembling,  “ tell  mo 
now;  to  leave  me  in  suspense,  after  receiving  such  dreadful  hints, 
would  be  cruelty.  Oh!  surely,  if  Lord  Mortimer  be  safe;  if  Lady 
Martha  Dormer,  if  Lady  Araminta  is  well,  I can  have  nothing  so  very 
shocking  to  hear.” 

“Alas!”  replied  he,  mournfully  shaking  his  head,  “you  are  mis- 
taken. Be  satisfied,  however,  that  the  friends  you  havd  mentioned 
are  all  well.  I have  said  I would  write  to  you.  Can  you  meet  me 
this  evening  amongst  the  ruins!”  Amanda  gave  an  assenting  bow. 
“ I shall  then,”  pursued  he,  “ have  a letter  ready  to  deliver  you.  In  the 
mean  time,  I must  inform  you,  no  person  in  the  world  knows  of  my 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


S97 


visit  here  but  yourself,  and,  of  all  beings.  Lord  Mortimer  is  tbe  last  I 
should  wish  to  know  it.  Kemember,  then,  Miss  Fitzalan,”  taking 
her  hand,  which  he  grasped  with  violence,  as  if  to  impress  his  words 
upcfi  her  heart,  ‘‘  remember,  that  on  secrecy  every  thing  most  estima- 
ble in  life,  even  life  itself,  perhaps,  depends.” 

With  these  dreadful  and  mysterious  words  he  departed,  leaving 
Amanda  a picture  of  horror  and  surprise ; it  was  many  minutes  ere 
she  moved  from  the  attitude  in  which  he  left  her,  and  when  she  did, 
it  was  only  to  walk  in  a disordered  manner  about  the  room,  repeating 
liis  dreadful  words.  He  was  come  perhaps  to  part  her  and  Lord  Mor- 
timer ; and  yet,  after  consenting  to  their  union,  surely  Lord  Cherhury 
could  not  be  guilty  of  such  treachery  and  deceit.  Yet,  if  this  were 
not  the  case,  why  conceal  his  coming  to  Ireland  from  Lord  Morti- 
mer ? "Why  let  it  be  known  only  to  her  ? And  what  could  be  the 
secrets  of  dreadful  import  he  had  to  communicate  ? 

From  these  self-interrogations,  in  which  her  reason  was  almost 
bewildered,  the  entrance  of  the  prioress  drew  her. 

She  started  at  seeing  the  pale  and  distracted  looks  of  Amanda,  and 
asked  “ if  she  had  heard  any  bad  tidings  of  Lord  Mortimer.” 

Amanda  sighed  heavily  at  this  question,  and  said,  “ Ho.”  The 
secrecy  she  had  been  enjoined  she  durst  not  violate  by  mentioning 
the  mysterious  visit  to  her  friend.  Unable,  however,  to  converse  on 
any  other  subject,  she  resolved  to  retire  to  her  chamber.  She  placed 
her  illness  and  agitation  to  the  account  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  said  a 
attle  rest  was  absolutely  necessary  for  her,  and  bngged,  if  his  lordship 
came  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  he  might  be  told  she  was  too  ill  to 
see  him. 

They  then  pressed  her  to  stay  for  tea.  She  refused,  and,  as  she 
retired  from  the  room,  desired  nothing  might  be  said  of  the  person 
who  had  just  seen  her,  to  Lord  Mortimer;  saying  with  a faint  smile, 
‘ she  would  not  make  him  vain,  by  letting  him  know  of  her  anxiety 
about  him.”  She  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  endeavoured  to  con- 
trol her  perturbations,  that  she  might  be  the  better  enabled  to  sup- 
port what  she  had  so  much  reason  to  apprehend.  Heither  the  prior- 
ess nor  the  nuns,  in  obedience  to  her  injunctions,  intruded  upon  her, 
and,  at  the  appointed  hour,  she  softly  opened  the  chamber  door,  and. 
every  piuce  being  clear,  stole  softly  from  the  convent. 

She  found  Lord  Cherbury  waiting  for  her  amidst  the  solitary  rums 


398 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


He  had  a letter  in  his  hand,  which  he  presented  to  her  the  moment 
she  api^eared. 

“ III  this  letter,  Miss  Eitzalan,”  said  he,  “ I have  opened  to  yon  my 
whole  heart:  I have  dishurthened  it  of  secrets  which  have  iong 
oppressed  it;  I have  entrusted  my  honour  to  your  care.  From  what 
I have  said,  that  its  contents  are  of  a sacred  nature,  you  may  believe  ; 
should  they  he  considered  in  any  other  light  by  you,  the  consequences 
may,  nay  must  be  fatal.” — He  said  this  with  a sternness  that  made 
Amanda  shrink.  “Meditate  well  on  the  contents  of  that  letter, 
Miss  Fitzalan,”  continued  he,  in  a voice  of  deep  solemnity,  “ for  it  is 
a letter  which  will  fix  your  destiny  and  mine;  even  should  the 
request  contained  in  it  he  refused,  let  me  he  the  first  acquainted  with 
the  refusal ; then,  indeed,  I shall  urge  you  no  more  to  secrecy,  for 
what  will  follow,  in  consequence  of  such  a refusal,  must  divulge  all.” 

“ Oh ! tell  me,  tell  me,”  said  Amanda,  catching  hold  of  his  arm, 
“ Tell  me  what  is  the  request,  or  what  it  is  I am  to  fear : Oh  ! tell  me 
at  once,  and  rid  me  of  the  torturing  suspense  I endure.” 

“ I cannot,”  he  cried,  “indeed  I cannot.  To-morrow  night  I shall 
expect  your  answer  here  at  the  same  hour.” 

At  this  moment  Lord  Mortimer’s  voice  calling  upon  Amanda  was 
heard.  Lord  Cherhury  dropped  her  hand  vrhich  he  had  taken  and 
instantly  retired  amongst  the  windings  of  the  pile,  from  whence  Lord 
Mortimer  soon  appeared,  giving  Amanda  only  time  to  hide  the  fatal 
letter. 

“Good  heaven!”  exclaimed  he,  “what  could  have  brought  you 
hither,  and  who  was  the  person  who  just  departed  from  you  ?”  It  was 
well  for  Amanda  that  the  twilight  gave  but  an  imperfect  view  of  her 
face ; she  felt  her  colour  come  and  go ; a cold  dew  overspread  her 
forehead;  she  leaned  against  a rude  fragment  of  the  building,  and 
faintly  exclaimed,  “ the  person — ” 

“Yes,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “I  am  sure  I heard  retreating  foot- 
steps.” 

“ You  are  mistaken,”  repeated  Amanda  in  the  same  faint  accent. 

“Well,”  said  he,  “though  you  may  dispute  the  evidence  of  my 
ears,  you  cannot  the  evidence  of  my  eyes ; I see  you  here,  and  am 
astcnished  at  it.” 

“ I came  here  for  air,”  said  Amanda. 

“For  air,”  repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  “ I own,  I should  have  thought 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


899 


tlie  garden  better  adapted  for  sncb  a purpose ; but  wby  come  bitber 
in  a clandestine  manner  ? Why,  if  you  have  fears  you  would  per- 
suade me  you  have,  expose  yourself  to  danger  from  the  wretch  who 
haunts  the  place,  by  coming  here  alone  When  I went  to  the  con- 
vent, I was  told  you  were  indispose^l,  and  could  not  be  disturbed : I 
could  not  depart,  however,  without  making  an  effort  to  see  you  ; but 
you  can  easier  imagine  than  I describe  the  consternation  I felt  when 
you  could  not  be  found.  It  was  wrong;  indeed,  Amanda,  it  was 
wrong  to  come  here  alone,  and  affect  concealment.” 

“ Gracious  heaven !”  said  Amanda,  raising  her  hands  and  eyes,  and 
bursting  into  tears,  “how  wretched  am  I!” 

“ She  was,  indeed,  at  this  moment  superlatively  wretched.  Her 
l.eart  was  oppressed  by  the  dread  of  evil,  and  she  perceived  suspi- 
cions in  Lord  Mortimer  which  she  could  not  attempt  to  remove,  lest 
an  intimation  of  the  secret  she  was  so  awfully  enjoined  to  keep 
should  escape. 

“ Ah ! Amanda,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  losing  in  a moment  the 
asperity  with  which  he  had  addressed  her  at  first ; “ ah ! Amanda, 
like  the  rest  of  your  sex,  you  know  too  well  the  power  of  your  tears 
not  to  use  them.  Forget,  or  at  least  forgive,  all  I have  said.  I was. 
disappointed  in  not  seeing  you  the  moment  I expected,  and  that  put 
me  out  of  temper.  I know  I am  too  impetuous,  but  you  will  in  time 
subdue  every  unruly  passion ; I put  myself  into  your  hands,  and  you 
shall  make  me  what  you  please.” 

He  now  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  finding  her  trembling 
universally,  again  implored  her  forgiveness,  as  he  imputed  the  agita- 
tion she  betrayed  entirely  to  the  uneasiness  lie  had  given  her.  She 
assured  him,  with  a faltering  voice,  he  had  not  offended  her.  Her 
spirits  were  affected,  she  said,  by  all  she  had  suffered  during  the  day; 
Lord  Mortimer  placing,  as  she  wished,  those  sufferings  to  his  own 
account,  declared  her  anxiety  at  once  pained  and  pleased  him,  adding 
he  would  truly  confess  what  detained  him  from  her  during  the  day, 
as  soon  as  they  returned  to  the  convent. 

Their  return  to  it  relieved  the  sisterhood,  who  had  also  been  seek- 
ing Amanda,  from  many  apprehensions.  The  prioress  and  sister 
Mary  followed  them  into  the  parlour,  where  Lord  Mortimer  begged 
they  would  have  compassion  on  him,  and  give  him  something  for  hia 
supper,  os  lie  had  scarcely  eaten  anything  for  the  whole  day. 


400 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Sister  Mary  iustantly  replied,  “He  would  be  gratified,  and,  as 
Amanda  was  in  the  same  predicament,  she  hoped  he  would  now  be 
able  to  prevail  on  her  to  eat.”  The  cloth  was  accordingly  laid,  and  a 
few  trifles  placed  upon  it.  Sister  Mary  would  gladly  have  staid,  but 
the  prioress  had  understanding  enough  to  think  the  supper  would  be 
more  palatable  if  they  were  absent,  and  accordingly  retired. 

Lord  Mortimer  now,  with  the  most  soothing  tenderness,  tried  to 
cheer  his  fair  companion,  and  make  her  take  some  refreshment ; but 
his  efforts  for  either  of  these  purposes  were  unsuccessful,  and  she 
besought  him  not  to  think  her  obstinate,  if  she  could  not  in  a moment 
recover  her  spirits.  To  divert  his  attention  a little  from  herself,  she 
asked  him  to  perform  his  promise  by  relating  what  kept  him  the 
whole  day  from  St.  Catharine’s. 

He  now  acknowledged  he  had  been  in  search  of  Belgrave  ; but  the 
precautions  he  had  taken  to  conceal  himself  baffled  all  inquiries; 
“ which  convinces  me,”  continued  Lord  Mortimer — “ if  I wanted 
conviction  about  such  a matter,  that  he  has  not  yet  dropped  his  vil- 
lainous designs  upon  you.  But  the  wretch  cannot  always  escape  the 
vengeance  he  merits.” 

“May  he  never,”  cried  Amanda,  fervently,  yet  involuntarily, 
“meet  it  from  your  hands!” 

“"We  will  drop  that  part  of  the  subject,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  “if 
you  please.  You  must  know,”  continued  he,  “after  scouring  the 
whole  neighbourhood,  I fell  in,  about  four  miles  hence,  with  a gentle- 
man, who  had  visited  at  the  Marquis  of  Rosline’s  last  summer.  He 
immediately  asked  me  to  accompany  him  home  to  dinner.  From  his 
residence  in  the  country,  I thought  it  probable  he  miglit  be  able  to 
give  some  account  of  Belgrave,  and  therefore  accepted  the  invitation ; 
but  my  inquiries  were  as  fruitless  here  as  elsewhere.  When  I found 
it  so,  I was  on  thorns  to  depart,  particularly  as  all  the  gentlemen 
were  set  in  for  drinking,  and  I feared  I*  might  be  thrown  into  an 
improper  situation  to  visit  my  Amanda.  I was  on  the  watch,  how- 
ever; and,  to  use  their  sportive  term,  literally  stole  away.” 

“Thank  Heaven!”  said  Amanda,  “your  inquiries  proved  fi’uitless. 
Oh ! never,  never  repeat  them ; think  no  more  about  a wretch  so 
despicable.” 

“ Well,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  “why  don’t  you  hurry  me  from  the 
neighbourhood?  Fix  the  day,  the  moment  for  our  departave : I )>ave 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


401 


oeeu  here  already  five  days  ; Lady  Martha’s  patience  is,  I dare  say, 
quite  exhausted  by  this  time,  and,  should  we  delay  much  longer,  1 
suppose  she  will  think  we  have  both  become  converts  to  the  holy 
rites  of  this  convent,  and  that  I,  instead  of  taking  the  vows  which 
should  make  me  a joyM  bridegroom,  am  about  taking  those  which 
shall  doom  me  to  celibacy ; seriously,  what  but  want  of  inclination 
can  longer  detain  you  ?” 

“ Ah!”  said  Amanda,  “ you  know  too  well  that  my  departure  can- 
not be  retarded  by  want  of  inclination.” 

“ Then  why  not  decide  immediately  upon  the  day?”  Amanda  was 
silent ; her  situation  was  agonizing ; how  could  she  fix  upon  a day, 
uncertain  whether  she  did  not  possess  a letter  which  would  prevent 
her  ever  taking  the  projected  journey  ? 

“TTell,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  after  allowing  her  some  time  to 
speak,  ‘‘  I see  I must  fix  the  day  myself : this  is  Tuesday — let  it  be 
Thursday.” 

‘‘Let  us  drop  the  subject  this  night,  my  lord,”  said  Amanda; 
“ I am  really  ill,  and  only  wait  for  your  departure  to  retire  to  rest.” 

Lord  Mortimer  obeyed  her,  but  with  reluctance,  and  soon  after 
retired. 


CIIAPTEK  XLI. 

As  one  condemn’d  to  leap  a precipice, 

Who  sees  before  his  eyes  the  depth  below, 

Stops  short,  and  looks  about  for  some  kind  shrub 
To  break  his  dreadful  fall. 

. Dsyden. 

Amanda  went  to  her  chamber  the  moment  Lord  Mortimer  departed ; 
the  nuns  were  already  retired  to  rest,  so  that  the  stillness  which 
reigned  through  the  house  added  to  the  awfulness  of  her  feelings,  as 
she  sat  down  to  peruse  a letter  which  she  had  been  previously 
informed  would  fix  her  fate. 

“to  miss  FITZALAN. 

“To  destroy  a prospect  of  felicity,  at  the  verj  moment  its  envelo])ing 
glooms  are  dispersed,  is  indeed  the  source  of  pangs  most  dreailfol ; 


402 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


yet  snch  are  tlie  horrors  of  my  destiny,  that  nothing  hut  intervening 
between  yon,  Mortimer,  and  happiness,  can  save  me  from  perdition ! 
Appalled  at  this  dreadful  assertion,  the  letter  drops  from  your  trem- 
bling hands  ; but,  oh ! dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  cast  it  not  utterly  aside  till 
you  peruse  the  rest  of  the  contents,  and  fix  the  destiny  of  the  most 
wretched  of  mankind,  wretched  in  thinking  he  shall  interrupt 
not  only  your  peace,  but  the  peace  of  a son,  so  noble,  so  gracious, 
so  idolized  as  Mortimer  is  by  him.  But  I will  no  longer  torture  your 
feelings  by  keeping  you  in  suspense;  the  preface  I have  already 
given  is  sufficient,  and  I will  be  explicit:  gambling,  that  bane  of  fame 
and  fortune,  has  been  my  ruin ; but  whilst  I indulged,  so  well  did  I 
conceal  my  propensity  for  it,  that  even  those  I called  my  friends 
are  ignorant  of  it.  With  shame  I confess,  I was  ever  foremost  to 
rail  against  this  vice,  which  was  continually  drawing  sums  in  secret 
from  me,  that  would  have  given  comfort  and  affluence  to  many  a 
child  of  want.  For  some  time  my  good  and  bad  fortune  were  so 
equal,  that  my  income  suffered  no  considerable  diminution.  About 
five  years  ago,  a Mr.  Freelove,  a particular  friend  of  mine  died,  and 
left  to  my  care  his  only  son,  who,  I dare  say,  you  may  recollect 
having  seen  at  my  house  last  winter : this  young  man’s  property  was 
consigned  to  my  care  to  manage  as  much  for  his  advantage  as  I could ; 
it  consisted  of  a large  estate  and  fifty  thousand  pounds.  At  the  period 
Freelove  became  my  ward,  I had  had  a constant  run  of  ill  luck  for 
many  months.  The  ardour  of  gaming  (unlike  every  other  passion)  is 
rather  increased  than  diminished  by  disappointment.  Without  being 
warned  therefore  by  ill  success,  I still  went  on,  till  all  I could  touch 
of  my  own  property  was  gone.  Did  I then  retire  ashamed  of  my 
folly  ? Mo ; I could  not  bear  to  do  so,  without  another  effort  for 
recovering  my  losses,  and  in  that  effort  risked  something  more 
precious  than  I had  ever  yet  done,  namely,  my  honour,  by  using  the 
money  which  lay  in  my  hands  belonging  to  Freelove.  The  long 
period  which  was  to  elapse  ere  he  came  of  age,  emboldened  me  to 
this.  Ere  that  period  I trusted  I should  have  retrieved  my  losses, 
and  be  enabled  not  only  to  discharge  the  principal,  but  whatever 
interest  it  would  have  brought,  if  applied  to  another  purpose.  I 
followed  the  bent  of  my  evil  genius,  sum  after  sum  was  taken  up,  and 
all  alike  buried  in  the  accursed  vortex  which  had  already  swallowed  so 
much  from  me.  But  when  I found  all  was  gone,  oh,  Miss  Fitzalan ! 
I still  tremble  at  the  distraction  of  that  moment. 

“All,  as  I have  said  before,  that  I could  touch  of  property  was 
gone ; the  remainder  was  so  settled  I had  no  power  over  it,  except 
joined  by  my  son.  Great  as  was  the  injury  he  would  sustain  by 
mortgaging  it,  I was  confident  he  never  would  hesitate  doing  so  if 
acquainted  with  my  distress;  but  to  let  him  know  it  was  worse  than 
a death  of  torture  could  be  to  me ; his  early  excellence,  the  nobleness 
of  his  principles,  mingled  in  the  love  1 felt  for  him  a degree  of  awe  ; 
to  confess  myself  a villain  to  such  a character,  to  acknowledge  my  life 
had  been  a scene  of  deceit ; to  be  abashed,  confounded  in  the  presence 
of  my  son,  to  meet  his  piercing  eye,  to  see  the  blush  of  slianie  manilo 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


403 


his  cheeks,  for  his  father’s  crimes — oh  horrible — ^mosfc  horrible!  I 
raved  at  the  idea,  and  resolved  if  driven  by  necessity  to  tell  him  of 
my  baseness,  not  to  survive  the  confession.  At  this  critical  juncture, 
tlio  Marquis  of  Eosline  came  from  Scotland,  to  reside  in  London ; an 
intimacy  which  had  been  dormant  foi;  years,  between  our  families 
was  then  revived ; and  I soon  found  that  an  alliance  between  them 
would  be  pleasing.  The  prospect  of  it  raised  me  from  the  very  deptli 
of  despair ; but  my  transports  were  of  short  continuance  for  Mortimer 
not  only  showed,  but  expressed  the  strongest  repiignance  to  such  a 
connexion. 

“ Time  and  daily  experience,  I trusted,  would  so  forcibly  convince 
him  of  the  advantages  of  it,  as  at  last  to  conquer  this  repugnance : 
nor  did  the  hope  of  an  alliance  taking  place  entirely  forsake  my  heart, 
till  informed  he  was  already  bestowed  upon  another  object.  My 
feelings  at  this  information  1 shall  not  attempt  to  describe  : all  hope 
of  saving  myself  from  dishonour  was  now  cut  off ; for  though  dutiful 
and  attentive  to  me  in  the  highest  degree,  I could  not  flatter  myself 
that  Mortimer  would  blindly  sacrifice  his  reason  and  inclination  to 
my  will.  The  most  fatal  intentions  again  took  ]jossession  of  my 
mind,  but  the  uncertainties  he  suffered  on  your  account  kept  me  in 
^ horrible  suspense  as  to  their  execution ; after  some  months  of  torture, 
I began  again  to  revive>,  by  learning  that  you  and  Mortimer  were 
inevitably  separated ; and  such  is  the  selfish  natare  of  vice,  so  aban- 
doned is  it  to  all  feelings  of  humanity,  that  I rather  rejoiced  at,  than 
lamented  the  supposed  disgrace  of  the-  daugliter  of  ray  friend. 

“But  the  persevering  constancy  of  Mortimer,  rather,  let  me  say, 
the  immediate  interposition  of  Providence,  soon  gave  her  reason  to 
triumph  over  the  arts  of  her  enemies,  and  I was  again  reduced  to 
despair.  Mortimer,  I dare  say,  from  motives  of  delicacy,  has  con- 
cealed from  you  the  opposition  I gave  to  his  wishes,  after  your  inno- 
cence was  cleared,  and  the  intentions  of  Lady  Martha  Dormer,  relative 
to  you,  Tvere  made  known;  at  last  I found  I must  either  seem  to 
acquiesce  in  these  wishes  and  intentions,  or  divulge  my  real  motive 
for  opposing  them:  or  else  quarrel  wfith  my  son  and  sister,  and  appear 
m their  eyes,  the  most  selfish  of  human  beings;  I,  therefore,  to 
appearance,  acquiesced,  but  resolved  in  reality  to  throw^  myself  upon 
your  mercy:  believing  that  a character  so  tender,  so  perfect,  so  heroic- 
like,  as  yours  has  been,  through  every  scene  of  distress,  would  have 
compassion  on  a fallen  fellow-creature. — Was  my  situation  otherwise 
than  it  now  is,  were  you  even  portionless,  I should  rejoice  at  having 
you  united  to  my  family,  from  your  own  intrinsic  merit.  Situated  as 
I am,  the  fortune  Lady  Martha  Dormer  proposes  giving  you,  can  be 
of  no  consequence  to  me:  tlie  projected  match  between  you  and  Jffor- 
timer  is  yet  a secret  from  the  public,  of  course  it  has  not  lessened  his 
Interest  with  tlie  Eosline  family.  I liave  been  already  so  fortunate  as 
to  adjust  the  unlucky  difference  which  took  place  between  them,  and 
remove  anj  resentment  they  entertained  against  him,  and  I am 
•confident  the  first  overture  he  should  make  for  a union  with  Lady 
Euplirasia  would  be  successful.  The  fortune  which  would  ’mmediato 


404 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ly  be  received  with  her,  is  sixty  tliousand  pounds,  and  five  tiiousand 
a year;  the  first  would  be  given  up  to  me  in  place  of  the  settlement 
I should  make  on  Lord  Mortimer,  so  that  you  see,  my  dear  Miss 
Fitzalan,  his  marriage  with  Lady  Euphrasia  would  at  once  extricate 
me  from  all  my  difficulties. — Freelove  in  a few  months  will  be  of  age, 
and  the  smallest  delay  in  settling  with  him,  after  he  attains  that 
period,  must  brand  me  with  dishonour. 

“I  stand  upon  the  verge  of  a dreadful  abyss,  and  it  is  in  your 
power  only  to  pr^erve  me  from  plunging  into  it : you,  who  like  an 
angel  of  mercy,  may  bid  me  live,  and  save  me  .from  destruction. 
Yet  think  not,  in  resigning  Lord  Mortimer,  if  indeed  such  a resigna- 
tion should  take  place,  you  sacrifice  your  own  interest.  No : it  shall 
be  my  grateful  care  to  secure  to  you  independence ; and  I am  confi- 
dent, among  the  many  men  you  must  meet,  sensible  of  your  worth, 
and  enraptured  with  your  charms,  you  may  yet  select  one,  as  calcu- 
lated to  render  you  happy  as  Mortimer,  while  he,  disappointed  of  the 
object  of  his  aftections,  will,  I have  no  doubt,  without  longer  hesita- 
tion, accept  the  one  I shall  again  propose  to  him. 

“ But  should  you  determine  on  giving  him  up,  you  ask  how,  and 
by  what  means,  you  can  break  with  him,  after  what  has  passed, 
without  revealing  your  real  motive  for  doing  so  to  him. 

“That  is  indeed  a difficulty;  but  after  going  so  far,  I must  not 
hesitate  in  telling  you  how  it  can  be  removed.  You  must  retire 
secretly  from  his  knowledge,  and  leave  no  clue  behind,  by  which  you 
can  be  traced.  If  you  comply  with  the  first  of  my  requests,  but  stop 
short  here,  you  will  defeat  all  that  your  mercy,  your  pity,  your  com- 
passion could  do  to  save  me ; since  the  consequence  of  any  hesitation 
must  be  a full  explanation:  and  I have  already  said  it,  and  now 
repeat  it  in  the  most  solemn  manner,  that  I will  not  survive  the 
divulgement  of  my  secret;  for  never,  no  never  will  I live  humbled  in 
the  eyes  of  my  son : if  then  you  comply,  comply  not  in  part.  Pardon 
me,  dear  Miss  Fitzalan,’ if  you  think  there  is  any  thing  arbitrary  in 
my  style ; I would  have  softened,  if  I could,  all  I Iiad  to  say : but  the 
time,  the  danger,  the  necessity  urged  me  to  be  explicit.  I have  now, 
to  you,  as  to  a superior  being,  opened  my  whole  heart ; its  rests  with 
you  whether  I shall  live  to  atone  for  my  follies,  or  by  one  desperate 
action  terminate  them.  Should  you  show  me  mercy,  unworthy  as  I 
am  of  it,  should  you,  in  compassion  to  poor  Mortimer,  comply  with 
a request  which  can  only  save  him  from  the  pangs  he  would  feel  at  a 
father’s  quitting  life  unbidden,  my  gratitude,  my  admiration,  my 
protection  whilst  I live,  will  be  yours,  and  the  first  act  of  my  restored 
life  will  be  to  secure  you  a competence.  I shall  wait  with  .tremb- 
ling anxiety  for  your  appearance  to-morrow  night;  till  then  believe 
mo  “Your  sincere,  though 

“ Most  unhappy  friend 

“ ClIERBTJRY.’' 

The  fatal  letter  fell  from  Amanda,  a mist  overspread  her  eyes,  and 
Bhe  sunk  senseless  on  her  chair ; but  the  privation  of  her  misery  was 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


405 


of  sLort  duration,  and  she  recovered  as  if  from  a dreadful  dream ; 
she  felt  cold,  trembling,  and  terrified;  she  looked  round  the  room 
with  an  eye  of  apprehension  and  dismay,  bewildered  as  to  the  cause 
of  her  wretchedness  and  terror,  till  the  letter  at  her  feet  again  struck 
her  sigj^t. 

“ Was  there  no  way,”  she  asked  herself,  as  she  again  examined  tl)0 
contents,  “ was  there  no  way  by  which  the  dreadful  sacrifice  it 
doomed  her  to,  could  be  avoided  ? Lady  Martha  and  Lord  Mortimer 
would  unite  their  efibrts  to  save  the  honour  of  their  wretched  rela- 
tive; they  wmuld  soothe  his  feelings — they  would  compassionate  his 
failings — they,  would — ” but  she  started  in  the  midst  of  these  ideas ; 
started  as  from  ideas  fraught  with  guilt  and  horror,  as  those  fatal 
words  rushed  upon  her  mind  : “ I will  not  survive  the  divulgernent 
of  my  secret ;”  and  she.  found  that  to  save  the  father,  she  must  resign 
the  son 

How  unworthy  of  such  a sacrifice,  engaged  as  she  was  to  Lord 
Mortimer ! She  began  to  doubt  whether  she  had  a right  to  make  it. 
What  a doubt ! She  shuddered  for  having  conceived  it,  and  reproach- 
ed herself  for  yielding  a moment  to  the  suggestion  of  tenderness, 
which  had  given  rise  to  it.  She  resolved,  without  a farther  struggle, 
to  submit  to  reason  and  virtue,  convinced  that,  if  accessory  to  Lord 
Cherbury’s  death,  nothing  could  assuage  her  wretchedness,  and  the 
unhappiness  Lord  Mortimer  would  sufier  at  losing  her  would  be 
trifling  compared  to  that  he  would  feel  if  he  lost  his  father  by  an  act 
of  suicide. 

“ In  my  fate,”  exclaimed  she,  in  a low  and  broken  accent  of  des- 
pair, “ there  is  no  alternative ! I submit  to  it,  without  a farther 
struggle.  I dare  not  call  upon  one  being  to  advise  me ; I resign  him, 
therefore,”  she  continued,  as  if  Lord  Oherbury  was  really  present  to 
hear  her  resignation,  “resign  Lord  Mortimer:  but,  oh,  my  God!” 
raising  her  hands  with  agony  to  heaven,  “ give  mo  fortitude  to  bear 
the  horrors  of  my  situation.  Oh,  Mortimer ! dear,  invaluable  Morti- 
mer 1 the  hand  of  fate  is  against  our  union,  and  we  must  part,  never, 
never  more  to  meet  1 From  the  imputation  of  ingratitude  and  guilt 
I shall  not  be  allowed  to  vindicate  myself : no,  I am  completely  the 
victim  of  Lord  Oherbury — the  cruel,  perfidious  Oherbury,  whose 
treachery,  wdiose  seeming  acquiescence  in  the  wishes  of  his  son  has 
given  me  joy  but  to  render  my  misery  more  acute!” 


406 


CIIIL\)REN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


That  Lord  Mortimer  would  impute  withdrawing  herself  fi cm  Lina 
to  an  attachment  for  Belgrave  she  was  convinced  ; and  that  her  fame, 
as  well  as  peace  should  he  sacrificed  to  Lord  Cherhuiy,  caused  such  a 
whirl  of  contending  passions  in  her  mind,  that  reason  and  reflection 
for  a few  minutes  yielded- to  their  violence,  and  she  resolved  t^  vindi- 
cate herself  to  Lord  Mortimer.  This  resolution,  however,  was  of 
short  continaance ; as  her  subsiding  passions  again  gave  her  power 
to  reflect,  she  was  convinced  that  by  trying  to  clear  herself  of  an 
imaginary  crime  she  should  commit  a real  one,  since  to  save  her  owii 
cliaractcr.  Lord  Cherbury’s  must  be  stigmatized,  and  the  consequence 
of  sucli  an  act  he  liad  already  declared,  so  that  not  only  hy  tlie  world 
but  by  her  own  conscience,  she  sliould  forever  be  accused  of  acceller- 
ating  his  death. 

“ It  must,  it  must  be  made,”  she  wildly  cried,  the  sacrifice  must 
be  made,  and  Mortimer  is  lost  to  me  forever.”  She  flung  her- 
self on  the  bed,  and  passed  the  hours  till  morning  in  agonies  too  gre?t 
for  description.  From  a kind  of  stupefaction  i-ather  than  sleep,  int> 
which,  she  had  gradually  sunk  towards  morning,  she  was  aroused  by 
gentle  taj)  at  the  chamber  door,  and  the  voice  of  sister  Mary  informe  \ 
her  that  Lord  Mortimer  was  below,  and  impatient  for  his  breakfast. 

Amanda  started  from  the  bed,  and  bid  her  tell  his  lordship  sho 
would  attend  him  immediately.  She  then  adjusted  her  dress,  tried  to 
calm  her  spirits,  and,  with  uplifted  hands  and  eyes,  besought  heaven 
to  support  her  through  the  trials  of  the  day. 

"Weak  and  trembling  she  descended  to  the  parlour. — The  momen^i 
she  entered  it.  Lord  Mortimer,  shocked  and  surprised  by  her  altered 
looks,  exclaimed,  “Gracious  heaven!  what  is  the  matter?”  Then 
feeling  the  feverish  heat  of  her  hands,  continued,  “Why,  why, 
Amanda,  had  you  the  cruelty  to  conceal  your  illness  ? Proper  assis- 
tance miglit  have  prevented  its  increasing  to  such  a degree.'"  With 
unutterable  tenderness  he  folded  his  arms  about  her,  and  while  her 
drooping  head  sunk  on  his  bosom,  declared  he  would  immediately 
send  for  the  physician  who  had  before  attended  her. 

“Do  not,”  said  Amanda,  while  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks. 
“Do  not,“  continued  she,  in  a broken  voice,  “for  he  could  do  me  no 
good.” 

“ hTo  good,”  repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a terrified  accent. 

“1  mean,”  cried  she,  recollecting  herself,  “he  would  find  it  uime* 


CIIILDIIEN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


407 


ocssary  tc  prescribe  anything  for  me,  as  my  illness  only  proceeds  from 
the  agitation  I suffered  yesterday;  it  made  me  pass  an  indifferent 
nigni,  but  quietness  to-day  will  recover  me.” 

Lord  Mortimer  was  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  give  up  his  inten- 
tion, nor  would  he  relinquish  it  till  she  had  promised,  if  not  better 
before  the  evening,  to  inform  him,  and  let  the  physician  be  sent  for. 

They  now  sat  down  to  breakfast,  at  which  Amanda  was  unable 
either  to  preside  or  eat.  When  over,  she  told  Lord  Mortimer  she 
must  retire  to  her  chamber,  as  rest  was  essential  for  her;  but 
between  nine  and  ten  in  the  evening  she  would  be  happy  to  see  him. 
He  tried  to  persuade  her  that  she  might  rest  as  Avell  upon  the  sofa  in 
the  parlour  as  in  her  chamber,  and  that  he  miglit  then  be  allov/ed  to 
sit  with  her : but  she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  this,  she  said,  and 
begged  he  would  excuse  seeing  her  till  the  time  she  had  already 
mentioned. 

He  at  last  retired  with  great  reluctance,  but  not  till  she  had  several 
times  desired  him  to  do  so. 

Amanda  now  repaired  to  her  chamber,  but  not  to  indulge  in  the 
supineness  of  grief,  though  her  heart  felt  bursting,  but  to  settle  upon 
some  plan  for  her  future  conduct.  In  the  first  place,  she  meant 
immediately  to  write  to  Lord  Cherbury,  as  the  best  method  she  could 
take  of  acquainting  him  with  her  compliance,  and  preventing  any 
conversation  between  them,  which  would  now  have  been  insupport- 
able to  her. 

In  the  next  place  she  designed  acquainting  the  prioress  with  the 
sudden  alteration  in  her  affairs,  only  concealing  from  her  the  occasion 
of  that  alteration,  and,  as  but  one  day  intervened  between  the  present 
and  the  one  fixed  for  her  journey,  meant  to  beseech  her  to  think  of 
some  place  to  which  she  might  retire  from  Lord  Mortimer. 

Yet  siicli  was  the  opinion  she  knew  the  prioress  entertained  of 
lord  Mortimer,  that  she  almost  dreaded  she  would  impute  her  resig- 
nation of  him  to  some  criminal  motive,  and  abandon  her  entirely.  If 
tliis  should  be  the  case  (and  scarcely  could  she  be  surprised  if  it  was) 
she  resolved,  without  delay,  to  go  privately  to  the  neighbouring 
town,  and  from  thence  proceed  immediately  to  Dublin:  how  slie 
should  act  there,  or  what  would  become  of  her,  never  entered  her 
thoughts : they  were  wholly  engrossed  about  the  manner  in  which 
Hhe  should  leave  St.  Catharine’s. 


408 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


But  she  hoped,  much  as  appearances  were  against  her,  she  should 
not  he  'deserted  by  the  prioress.  Providence,  she  trusted,  would  be 
so  compassionate  to  her  misery,  as  to  preserve  her  this  one  friend, 
who  could  not  only  assist  hut  advise  her. 

As  soon  as  she  had  settled  the  line  of  conduct  she  should  pursue, 
she  sat  down  to  pen  her  renunciation  of  Lord  Mortimer,  which  she 
did  in  the  following  words  : 

‘‘to  the  earl  of  oheebuey. 

“My  Lord: 

“ To  your  wishes  I resign  my  happiness ; my  happiness,  I repeat, 
for  it  is  due  to  Lord  Mortimer  to  declare,  that  a union  with  such  a 
character  as  his  must  have  produced  the  highest  felicity ; it  is  also 
due  to  my  own  to  declare,  that  it  was  neither-  his  rank  nor  fortune, 
but  his  virtues,  which  influenced  my  inclination  in  his  favour. 

“Happy  had  it  been  for  us  all,  my  lord,  but  particularly  for  me, 
had  you  continued  steady  in  opposing  the  wishes  of  your  son.  My 
reverence  for  paternal  authority  is  too  great  ever  to  have  allowed  me 
to  act  in  opposition  to  it.  I should  not  then,  by  your  seeming 
acquiescence  to  them,  have  been  tempted  to  think  my  trials  all  over. 

“ But  I will  not  do  away  with  any  little  merit  your  lordship  may  per- 
haps ascribe  to  my  immediate  compliance  with  your  request,  by  dwelling 
upon  the  sufferings  it  entails  upon  me.  May  the  renunciation  of  my 
hopes  be  the  means  of  realizing  your  lordship’s,  and  may  superior 
fortune  bring  superior  happiness  to  Lord  Mortimer ! 

“I  thank  your  lordship  for  your  intentions  relative  to  me:  but 
whilst  I do  so,  must  assure  you,  both  now  and  forever,  I shall  decline 
having  them  executed  for  me. 

“ I shall  not  disguise  the  truth ; it  would  not  be  in  your  lordship’s 
power  to  recompense  the  sacriflce  I have  made  you,  and  besides, 
pecuniary  obligations  can  never  sit  easy  upon  a feeling  mind,  except 
they  are  conferred  by  those  we  know  value  us,  and  whom  we  value 
ourselves. 

“I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

“Your  lordship’s  obedient  servant, 

“Amanda  Fitzalan.^ 

The  tears  she  had  with  difiSculty  restrained  while  she  was  writiug 
now  burst  forth.  She  rose,  and  walked  to  the  window  to  try  if  the 
air  would  remove  the  faintishness  which  oppressed  her  : from  it  she 
perceived  Lord  Mortimer  and  the  prioress  in  deep  conversation  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  convent:  she  conjectured  she  was  their 
subject,  for,  as  Lord  Mortimer  retired,  the  prioress,  whom  she  had 
not  seen  that  day  before,  came  into  her  chamber.  After  the  nsuai 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


409 


salutations — Lord  Mortimer  has  been  telling  me  yon  were  ill,”  said 
she:  “I  trusted  a lover’s  fears  had  magnified  the  danger:  but  truly, 
ray  dear  child,  I am  sorry  to  say  this  is  not  the  case ; tell  me,  my 
dear,  what  is  the  matter?  Surely  now,  more  than  ever,  you  should 
he  careful  of  your  health.” 

“ Oh ! no,”  said  Amanda,  with  a convulsive  sob — “ oh ! no,” 
wringing  her  hands,  “ you  are  sadly  mistaken.”  The  prioress  grew 
alarmed,  her  limbs  began  to  tremble,  she  was  unable  to  stand,  and 
dropping  on  the  nearest  chair,  besought  Amanda,  in  a voice  expressive 
of  her  feelings,  to  explain  the  reason  of  her  distress. 

Amanda  knelt  before  her ; she  took  her  hands,  she  pressed  them  to 
her  burning  forehead  and  lips,  and  bedewed  them  with  her  tears, 
whilst  she  exclaimed  she  was  wretched. 

“ Wretched !”  repeated  the  prioress ; “ for  heaven’s  sake  he  explicit  ^ 
keep  me  no  longer  in  suspense : you  sicken  my  very  heart ; by  your 
agitation  it  foretells  something  dreadful!” 

It  does  indeed,”  said  Amanda : “it  foretells  that  Lord  Mortimer 
and  I will  never  he  united  I” 

The  prioress  started,  and  surveyed  Amanda  with  a look  which  seemed 
to  say,  “she  believed  she  had  lost  her  senses;”  then,  with  assumed 
composure,  begged  “ she  would  defer  any  further  explanation  of  her 
distress  till  her  spirits  were  in  a calmer  state.” 

“I  wiU  not  rise,”  cried  Amanda,  taking  the  prioress’s  hand,  which 
in  her  surprise,  she  had  involuntarily  withdrawn — “ I will  not  rise 
till  you  say,  that,  notwithstanding  the  mysterious  situation  in  which 
I am  involved,  you  will  continue  to  he  my  friend.  Oh!  such  an 
assurance  would  assuage  the  sorrows  of  my  heart.” 

The  prioress  now  perceived  that  it  was  grief  alone  which  disordered 
Amanda ; hut  how  she  had  met  with  any  cause  for  grief,  or  what  could 
occasion  it,  were  matters  of  astonishment  to  her.  “ Surely,  my  dear 
child,”  cried  she,  “ you  should  know  me  too  well  to  desire  such  an 
assurance:  hut  however  mysterious  her  situation  may  appear  to 
others,  she  will  not,  I trust  and  believe,  let  it  appear  so  to  me.  I 
wait  with  impatience  for  an  explanation.” 

“ It  is  one  of  my  greatest  sorrows,”  exclaimed  Amanda,  “ that  I 
cannot  give  such  an  explanation:  no,  no,”  she  continued,  in  an 
agony,  “ a death-bed  confession  would  not  authorize  my  telling  you 
the  occasion  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  separation  pud  mine.”  The  prioress 
18 


410 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


now  insisted  on  her  taking  a chair,  and  then  begged,  as  far  as  slio 
could,  without  farther  delay,  she  would  let  her  into  her  situa- 
tion. 

Amanda  immediately  complied.  “ An  unexpected  obstacle  to  her 
union  with  Lord  Mortimer,”  she  said,  “ had  arisen ; an  obstacle 
wliich,  while  compelled  to  submit  to  it,  she  was  bound  most  solemnly 
to  conceal : it  was  expedient,  therefore,  she  should  retire  from  Lord 
Mortimer  without  giving  him  the  smallest  intimation  of  such  an 
intention,  lest,  if  he  suspected  it,  he  should  inquire  too  minutely,  and, 
by  so  doing,  plunge  not  only  her  but  himself  into  irremediable  dis- 
tress.— To  avoid  this,  it  was  necessary  all  but  the  prioress  should  be 
ignorant  of  her  scheme,  and  by  her  means  she  hoped  she  should  bo 
put  in  a way  of  finding  such  a place  of  secrecy  and  securit}^  as  she 
required.  She  besought  the  prioress,  with  streaming  eyes,  not  to 
impute  her  resignation  of  Lord  Mortimer  to  any  unworth^  motive ; 
to  that  Heaven,  which  could  alone  console  her  for  her  loss,  she 
appealed  for  her  innocence;  she  besought  her  to  believe  her  sincere; 
to  pity  but  not  condemn  her ; to  continue  her  friend  now,  when  her 
friendship  was  most  needful  in  this  her  deep  distress;  and  she 
assured  her,  if  it  was  withdrawn,  she  believed  she  could  no  longer 
struggle  with  her  sorrows.  The  prioress  remained  silent  a few  minutes, 
and  then  addressed  her  in  a solemn  voice. 

I own.  Miss  Fitzalan,  your  conduct  appears  so  inexplicable,  so 
astonishing,  that  nothing  but  the  opinion  I have  formed  of  your 
character,  from  seeing  the  manner  in  which  you  have  acted,  since 
left  to  yourself,  could  prevent  my  esteem  from  being  diminished ; but 
I am  persuaded  you  cannot  act  from  a bad  -motive ; therefore,  till 
that  persuasion  ceases,  my  esteem  can  know  no  diminution*  From 
this  declaration  you  may  be  convinced,  that,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
power,  I will  serve  you;  yet,  ere  you  finally  determine  and  require 
such  service,  weigh  well  what  you  are  about ; consider,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  you  are  about  acting  a dishonourable  part  in  breaking 
your  engagement  with  Lord  Mortimer,  without  assigning  some  reason 
for  doing  so.  Hothing  short  of  a point  of  conscience  should  influence 
you  to  this.” 

Hothing  short  of  it  has,”  replied  Amanda ; ‘‘  therefore  pity,  and 
do  not  aggravate  my  feelings  by  pointing  out  the  consequences  which 
will  attend  the  sacrifice  I am  compelled  to  make;  only  promise/^ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY*. 


411 


taking  tlio  prioress’s  hand,  “ only  promise,  in  this  great  and  sad  emer- 
gency, to  he  my  friend.” 

Her  looks,  her  word^,  her  agonies,  stopped  short  all  the  prioress 

as  going  to  say.  She  thought  it  would  be  barbarity  any  longer  to 
dwell  upon  the  ill  consequences  of  an  action  which  she  was  now  con- 
vinced some  fatal  necessity  compelled  her  to ; she  therefore  gave  her 
all  the  consolation  now  in  her  power,  by  assuring  her  she  should 
immediately  think  about  some  place  for  her  to  retire  to,  and  would 
keep  all  which  had  passed  between  them  a profound  secret.  She 
then  insisted  on  Amanda’s  lying  down,  and  trying  to  compose  her- 
self ; she  brought  her  drops  to  take,  and  drawing  the  curtains  about 
her,  retired  from  the  room.  In  two  hours  she  returned ; though  she 
entered  the  chamber  softly,  Amanda  immediately  drew  hack  the  cur- 
tain, and  appeared  much  more  composed  than  when  the  prioress  had 
left  her.  The  good  woman  would  not  let  her  rise,  hut  sat  down  on 
the  bed  to  tell  her  what  she  had  contrived  for  her. 

“ She  had  a relation  in  Scotland,”  she  said,  “ who,  from  reduced 
circumstances,  had  kept  a school,  for  many  years  ; hut,  as  the  infirm- 
ities of  age  came  on,  she  was  not  able  to  pay  such  attention  to  her 
pupils  as  their  friends  thought  requisite,  and  she  had  only  been  able 
to  retain  them  by  promising  to  get  a person  to  assist  her.  As  she 
thought  her  cousin  (the  prioress)  more  in  the  way  of  procuring  such 
an  one  than  herself,  she  had  written  to  her  for  that  purpose : a clever, 
well-behaved  young  woman,  who  would  be  satisfied  with  a small 
salary,  was  what  ^he  wanted. 

“I  should  not  mention  such  a place  to  you,”  said  the  prioress,  “but 
that  the  necessity  there  is  for  your  immediately  retiring  from  Lord 
Mortimer,  leaves  me  no  time  to  look  out  for  another ; but  do  not 
imagine  I wish  you  to  continue  there ; no,  indeed,  I should  think  it  a 
pity  such  talents  as  you  possess  should  be  buried  in  such  obscurity^ 
What  I think  is,  that  you  can  stay  there  till  you  grow  more  com- 
posed, and  can  look  out  for  a better  establishment.” 

“Do  not  mention  my  talents,”  said  Amanda,  “my  mind  is  so 
enervated  by  grief,  that  it  will  be  long  before  I can  make  any  great 
exertion ; and  the  place  you  have  mentioned  is,  from  its  obscurity, 
just  such  a one  as  I desire  to  go  to.” 

“ There  is,  besides,  another  inducement,”  said  the  prioress, 
“ namely,  its  being  but  a few  miles  from  Port  Patrick,  to  which  place 


412  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY* 

a fair  wind  will  bring  ns  in  a few  hours  from  this.  I know  the 
master  of  a little  wherry,  which  is  perpetually  going  backwards  and 
forwards ; he  lives  in  this  .neighbourhood,  an^  both  he  and  his  wife 
consider  themselves  under  obligations  to  me,  and  will  rejoice,  I am 
sure,  at  an  opportunity  of  obliging  me ; I shall  therefore,  send  for  him 
this  evening,  inform  him  of  the  time  you  wish  to  go,  and  desire  his 
jare  till  he  leaves  you  himself  at  Mrs.  Macpherson’s.” 

Amanda  thanked  the  prioress,  who  proceeded  to  say,  “ that,  on  the 
presumption  of  her  going  to  her  cousin’s,  she  had  already  written  a 
letter  for  he  to  take;  but  wished  to  know  whether  she  would  bo 
mentioned  by  her  own  or  a fictitious  name  ?” 

Amanda  replied,  “ By  a fictitious  one,”  and  after  a little  considera- 
tion, fixed  on  that  of  Frances  Donald,  which  the  prioress  accordiugly 
inserted,  and  then  read  the  letter. 

“to  mes.  macpiieeson. 

“Deae  CoTTsm, 

“The  bearer  of  this  letter,  Frances  Donald,  is  the  young  person  I 
have  procured  you  for  an  assistant  in  your  school.  I have  known  her 
some  time,  and  can  vouch  for  her  cleverness  and  discretion.  . She  is 
well  born  and  well  educated,  and  has  seen  better  days ; but  the  wheel 
of  fortune  is  continually  turning,  and  she  bears  her  misfortunes  with 
a patience  that  to  me  is  the  best  proof  she  could  give  of  a real  good 
disposition.  I have  told  her  you  give  but  ten  pounds  a year:  her 
going  proves  she  is  not  dissatisfied  with  the  salary.  I am  sorry  to 
hear  you  are  troubled  with  rheumatic  pains,  and  hope,  when  you- 
have  more  time  to  take  care  of  yourself,  you  will  grow  better.  All 
the  sisters  join  me  in  thanking  you  for  your  kind  inquiries  after 
them. — We  do  tolerably  well  in  the  little  school  we  keep,  and  trust, 
our  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  its  present  goodness,  will  obtain  a con- 
tinuance of  it.  I beg  to  hear  from  you  soon.  And  am,  my  dear 
cousin,  your  sincere  friend,  and  afiectionate  kinswoman, 

“ St.  Catharine's  Elizabeth  Deemot.” 

“ I have  not  said  as  much  as  you  deserve,”  said  the  prioress ; “ but 
if  the  letter  does  not  meet  your  approbation,  I will  make  any  altera- 
tion you  please  in  it.”  Amanda  assured  her  “ it  did,”  and  the  prioress 
then  said,  “ that  Lord  Mortimer  had  been  again  at  the  convent  to  inquire 
after  her,  and  was  told  she  was  better.”  Amanda  said,  she  would 
not  see  him  till  the  hour  she  had  appointed  for  his  coming  to  supper. 
The  prioress  agreed,  “that  as  things  were  changed,  she  was  right  in 
being  in  his  company  as  little  as  possible,  and  to  prevent  her  being  in 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


413 


his  way,  she  would  have  lier  dinner  and  tea  in  her  own  room.”  The 
cloth  was  accordingly  laid  in  it,  nor  would  the  good-natured  prioress 
depart  till  she  saw  Amanda  eat  something.  Sister  Mary,  she  said, 
was  quite  anxious  to  come  in,  and  perform  the  part  of  an  attendant, 
but  was  prevented  by  her. 

The  distraction  of  Amanda’s  thoughts  was  now  abated,  from  having . 
everything  adjusted  relative  to  her  future  conduct,  and  the  company 
of  the  prioress,  who  returned  to  her  as  soon  as  she  had  dined,  pre- 
vented her  losing  the  little  composure  she  had  with  such  difficulty 
acquired. 

She  besought  the  prioress  not  to  delay  writing  after  her  departure, 
and  to  relate  faithfully  every  thing  which  happened  in  consequence  of 
her  flight.  She  entreated  her  not  to  let  a mistaken  compassion  for 
her  feelings  influence  her  to  conceal  any  thing,  as  any  thing  like  the 
appearance  of  concealment  in  her  letter  would  only  torture  her  with 
anxiety  and  suspense. 

The  prioress  solemnly  promised  she  would  obey  her  request,  and 
Amanda  with  tears  regretted  that  she  was  now  unable  to  recompense 
the  kindness  of  the  prioress  and  the  sisterhood,  as  she  had  lately 
intended  doing  by  Lord  Mortimer’s  desire,  as  well  as  her  own  inclina- 
tion. The  prioress  begged  her  not  to  indulge  any  regret  on  that 
account,  as  they  considered  themselves  already  liberally  recompensed, 
and  had  besides  quite  sufficient  to  satisfy  their  humble  desires. 

Amanda  said  she  meant  to  leave  a letter  on  the  dressing-table  foi 
Lord  Mortimer,  with  the  notes  which  he  had  given  her  enclosed  in 
it.  “The  picture  and  the  ring,”  said  she,  with  a falling  tear,  “I 
cannot  part  with.”  For  the  things  which  she  had  ordered  from  the 
neighbouring  town,  she  told  the  prioress  she  would  leave  money  in 
her  hands,  also  a present  for  the  woman  who  had  been  engaged  to 
attend  her  to  England,  as  some  small  recompense  for  her  disappoint- 
ment. She  meant  only  to  take  some  linen  and  her  mourning  to 
Scotland,  the  rest  of  her  things,  including  her  music  and  books,  at 
some  future  and  better  period,  might  be  sent  after  her. 

Amanda  was  indebted  to  the  sisterhood  for  three  months’  board 
and  lodging,  which  was  ten  guineas.  Of  the  two  hundred  pounds 
which  Lord  Mortimer  had  given  her  on  leaving  Castle  Oarberry  one 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds  remained,  so  that  though  unable  to 
answer  the  claims  of  gratitude,  she  thanked  Heaven  she  was  able  Vi 


414 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


fulfil  those  of  justice.  This  she  told  the  prioress,  Tvho  instantly 
declared  that,  in  tlie  name  of  the  whole  sisterhood,  she  would  take 
upon  her  to  refuse  any  thing  from  her.”  Amanda  did  not  contest  the 
point,  being  secretly  determined  how  to  act.  The  prioress  drank  tea 
with  her — when  over,  Amanda  said  she  would  lie  down,  in  order  to 
try  and  be  composed  against  Lord  Mortimer  came.  The  prioress 
accordingly  withdrew,  saying,  “she  should  not  be  disturbed  till  then.” 

By  this  means  Amanda  was  enabled  to  be  in  readiness  for  delivering 
her  letter  to  Lord  Cherbury  at  the  proper  hour.  Her  heart  beat  with 
apprehension  as  it  approached;  she  dreaded  Lord  Mortimer  again 
surprising  her  amongst  the  ruins,  or  some  of  the  nuns  following  her 
to  them.  At  last  the  clock  gave  the  signal  for  keeping  her  appoint- 
ment. She  arose  trembling  from  the  bed,  and  opened  the  door ; she 
listened  and  no  noise  announced  any  one’s  being  near ; the  moments 
were  precious ; she  glided  through  the  gallery,  and  had  the  good 
fortune  to  find  the  hall  door  open.  She  hastened  to  the  ruins,  and 
found  Lord  Cherbury  waiting  there.  She  presented  him  the  letter  in 
silence.  lie  received  it  in  the  same  manner ; but  when  he  saw  her 
turning  away  to  depart,  he  snatched  her  hand,  and  in  a voice  that 
denoted  the  most  violent  agitation,  exclaimed,  “Tell  me,  tell  me. 
Miss  Fitzalan,  is  this  letter  propitious.”  “ It  is,”  replied  she,  in  a 
faltering  voice.  “ Then  may  heaven  eternally  bless  you,”  cried  he, 
falling  at  her  feet,  and  wrapping  his  arms  about  her.  His  posture 
shocked  Amanda,  and  his  detention  terrified  her. 

“ Let  me  go,  my  lord,”  said  she : “in  pity  to  me,  in  mercy  to  your 
self,  let  me  go,  for  one  moment  longer  and  we  may  be  discovered.” 

Lord  Cherbury  started  up.  “ From  whom,”  cried  he,  “ can  I hear 
about  you  ?” 

“ From  the  prioress  of  St.  Catharine’s,”  replied  Amanda  in  a 
trembling  voice,  “ she  only  will  know  the  secret  of  my  retreat.” 

He  again  snatched  her  hand,  and  kissed  it  with  vehemence. 
“Farewell,  thou  angel  of  a woman!”  he  exclaimed  and  disappeared 
among  the  ruins.  Amanda  hurried  back,  dreading  every  moment  to 
meet  liOrd  Mortimer ; but  she  neither  met  him  nor  any  other  person. 
She  had  scarcely  gained  her  chamber  ere  the  prioress  came  to  inform 
her,  his  lordship  was  in  the  parlour.  She  instantly  repaired  to  it. 
The  air  had  a little  changed  the  deadly  hue  of  her  complexion,  so 
that  from  her  looks  he  supposed  her  better,  and  her  wordft  strength* 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


415 


cncd  the  supposition.  She  talked  with  him,  forced  herself  to  eat 
some  supper,  and  checked  the  tears  from  falling  which  sprang  to  her 
eyes  whenever  he  mentioned  the  happiness  they  must  experience 
when  united,  the  pleasure  they  should  enjoy  at  Thornhury,  and  the 
delight  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  would  experience  whenever 
they  met. 

Amanda  desired  him  not  to  come  to  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
nor  to  the  convent  till  after  dinner,  as  she  would  be  so  busy  preparing 
for  her  journey,  she  would  have  no  time  to  devote  to  him.  He 
wanted  to  convince  her  he  could  not  retard  her  preparations,  by 
coming,  but  she  would  not  aJow  this. 

Amanda  passed  another  wretched  night.  She  breakfasted  in  the 
morning  with  the  nuns,  who  expressed  their  regret  at  losing  her — a 
regret  however  mitigated  by  the  hope  of  shortly  seeing  her  again,  as 
Lord  Mortimer  had  promised  to  bring  her  to  Castle  Carberry  as  soon 
as  she  had  visited  his  friends  in  England.  This  was  a trying  moment 
to  Amanda ; she  could  scarcely  conceal  her  emotions,  to  keep  herself 
from  weeping  aloud,  at  the  mention  of  a promise  never  to  be  fulfilled. 
She  swallowed  her  breakfast  in  haste,  and  withdrew  to  her  chamber 
on  pretence  of  settling  her  things.  Here  she  was  immediately  followed 
by  the  nuns,  entreating  they  might  severally  be  employed  in  assisting 
her.  She  thanked  them  with  her  usual  sweetness,  but  assured  them 
no  assistance  was  necessary,  as  she  had  but  a few  things  to  pack, 
never  having  unlocked  the  chests  which  had  come  from  Castle  Car- 
berry.  They  retired  on  receiving  this  assurance,  and  Amanda, 
fearful  of  another  interruption,  sat  down  to  write  her  farewell  letter 
to  Lord  Mortimer. 

“ TO  LORD  MORTIMER. 

“ My  Lord, 

“ A destiny  which  neither  of  us  can  control,  forbids  our  union, 
(n  vain  were  obstacles  encountered  and  apparently  overcome,  one 
uas  risen  to  oppose  it,  which  we  never  could  have  thought  of,  and  in 
yielding  to  it,  as  I am  compelled  by  dire  necessity  to  do,  I find  myself 
separated  from  you  without  the  remotest  .hope  of  our  ever  meeting 
again — without  being  allowed  to  justify  my  conduct,  or  offer  one 
sxcuse  which  might,  in  some  degree,  palliate  the  abominable  ingrati- 
tude  and  deceit  I may  appear  guilty  of ; appear,  I say,  for  in  reality 
my  heart  is  a stranger  to  either,  and  is  now  agonized  at  the  sacrifice 
It  is  compelled  to  make  : but  I will  not  hurt  your  lordship’s  feelings 
by  dwelling  oil  my  own  sufferings.  Already  have  I caused  you  too 


416 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


mucli  pain,  but  never  again  shall  I cross  your  path  to  disturb  your 
peace,  and  shade  your  prospect  of  felicity : no  my  lord,  removed  to  a 
tedious  distance,  the  name  I love  no  more  will  sink  upon  my  ear,  the 
delusive  form  of  happiness  no  more  will  mock  me. 

Had  every  thing  turned  out  according  to  my  wishes,  perhaps 
happiness,  so  great,  so  unexpected,  might  have  produced  a dangerous 
revolution  in  my  sentiments,  and  withdrawn  my  thoughts  too  much 
from  heaven  to  earth ; if  so,  oh ! blessed  be  the  power  that  snatched 
from  my  lips  the  cup  of  joy,  though  at  the  very  moment  I was  tasting 
the  delightful  beverage. 

“ I cannot  bid  you  pity  me,  though  I know  myself  deserving  of 
compassion : I cannot  bid  you  forbear  condemning  me,  though  I know 
myself  undeserving  of  censure.  In  this  letter  I enclose  the  notes  I 
received  from  your  lordship  ; the  picture  and  the  ring  I have  retained; 
they  will  soon  be  my  only  vestiges  of  former  happiness.  Farewell, 
Lord  Mortimer,  my  dear  and  valuable  friend,  farewell  for  ever.  May 
that  peace,  that  happiness  you  so  truly  deserve  to  possess,  be  yours, 
and  may  they  never  again  meet  with  such  interruptions  as  they  have 
received  from  the  unfortunate 

“ Amanda  M.  Fitzalan.” 

This  letter  was  blistered  with  her  tears ; she  laid  it  in  a drawer  till 
evening,  and  then  proceeded  to  pack  whatever  she  meant  to  take 
with  her  in  a little  trunk.  In  the  midst  of  this  business  the  prioress 
came  in  to  inform  her  she  had  seen  the  master  of  the  wherry,  and 
fe'ettled  every  thing  with  him.  He  not  only  promised  to  be  secret, 
but  to  sail  the  following  morning  at  four  o’clock,  and  conduct  her 
himself  to  Mrs.  Macpherson’s.  About  tliree  he  was  to  come  to  the 
convent  for  her;  he  had  also  promised  to  provide  every  thing 
necessary  on  board  for  her. 

Matters  being  thus  arranged,  Amanda  told  the  prioress  to  avoid 
suspicion,  she  would  leave  the  money  she  intended  for  the  woman, 
who  had  been  engaged  to  accompany  her  to  England,  on  her  dressing 
table,  with  a few  lines  purporting  who  it  was  for.  The  prioress 
approved  of  her  doing  so,  as  it  would  prevent  any  one  from  suspecting 
she  was  privy  to  her  departure.  She  was  obliged  to  leave  her 
directly,  and  Amanda  took  the  opportunity  of  putting  up  the  fifteen 
guineas  in  a paper,  five  for  the  woman  and  ten  for  the  nuns.  She 
wished  to  do  more  for  them,  but  feared  to  obey  the  dictates  of  gen  - 
erosity,  while  her  own  prospect  of  provision  was  so  uncertain.  She 
wrote  as  follows  to  the  prioress : 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


41! 


“to  mbs,,  dkbmot. 

“Dka.s  Madam, 

“ Was  my  situation  otherwise  than  it  now  is,  he  assured  1 neve? 
should  have  offered  the  trifle  you  will  find  in  this  paper  as  any  way 
adequate  to  the  discharge  of  my  debt ; to  you,  and  your  amiable  coim 
panions,  I regret  my  inability  (more  than  I can  express)  of  proving 
my  gratitude  to  you,  and  them  for  all  your  kindness  : never  will  thej’ 
he  obliterated  from  my  remembrance,  and  He,  who  has  promised  to 
regard  those  that  befriend  the  orphan,  will  reward  you  for  them.  I 
have  also  left  five  guineas  for  the  woman  you  were  so  good  as  to 
engage  to  attend  me  to  England.  I trust  she  will  think  them  a 
sufficient  recompense  for  any  trouble,  or  disappointment,  I may  have 
occasioned  her. 

“Farewell,  dear  Mrs.  Dermot,  dear  and  amiable  inhabitants  of 
St.  Catharine’s,  farewell.  As  Amanda  will  never  forget  you  in  hers, 
so  let  her  never  be  forgotten  in  your  orisons,  and  never  cease  to 
believe  her 

“ Grateful,  sincere  and  affectionate, 

“A.  M.  Fitzalan. 

By  this  time  she  was  summoned  to  dinner.  Her  spirits  were  sunk 
in  the  lowest  dejection  at  the  idea  of  leaving  the  amiable  woman 
who  had  been  so  kind  to  her,  and,  above  all,  at  the  idea  of  the  last 
sad  evening  she  was  to  pass  with  Lord  Mortimer.  His  lordship  came 
early  to  the  convent.  The  dejected  looks  of  Amanda  immediately 
struck  him,  and  renewed  all  his  apprehensions  about  her  health.  She 
answered  his  tender  inquii*ies  by  saying  she  was  fatigued. 

“Perhaps,”  said  he,  “you  will  like  to  rest  one  day,  and  not  com 
mence  your  journey  to-morrow  ?” 

“ Ho,  no,”  cried  Amanda,  “ it  shall  not  be  deferred.  To-morrow,’ 
continued  she,  with  a smile  of  anguish,  “ I will  commence  it.” 

Lord  Mortimer  thanked  her  for  a resolution  he  imagined  dictated 
by  an  ardent  desire  to  please  him,  but  at  the  same  time  again 
expressed  his  fears  that  she  was  ill. 

Amanda  perceived  that  if  she  did  not  exert  herself,  her  dejection 
would  lead  him  to  inquiries  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  evade ; but 
as  to  exert  herself*  was  impossible,  in  order  to  withdraw  his  attention, 
\n  some  degree,  from  herself,  she  proposed  that  as  this  was  the  Iasi 
evening  they  would  be  at  the  convent,  they  would  invite  the  nuns  to 
drink  tea  with  them.  Lord  Mortimer  immediately  acquiesced  in  the 
proposal,  and  the  invitation  being  sent  was  accepted. 

But  the  conversation  of  the  whole  party  was  of  a melancholy 


418 


6HILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Mnd.  Amanda  was  so  much  beloved  among  them,  that  the  prospect 
of  ^osing  her  filled  them  with  a regret,  which,  even  the  idea  of  seeing 
her  soon  again  could  not  banish.  About  nine,  which  was  tlieir  hour 
for  prayers,  they  rose  to  retire,  and  would  have  taken  leave  of  Lord 
Mortimer,  had  he  not  informed  them,  that  on  Miss  Fitzalan’s  account 
he  would  not  commence  the  journey  next  day  till  ten  o’clock,  at 
which  time  he  would  again  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them. 

When  they  withdrew  he  endeavoured  to  cheer  Amanda,  and 
besought  her  to  exert  her  spirits.  Of  his  own  accord,  he  said,  he 
would  leave  her  early,  that  she  might  get  as  much  rest  as  possible  against 
the  ensuing  day.  He  accordingly  rose  to  depart.  What  an  agonizing 
moment  for  Amanda — to  hear,  to  behold  the  man,  so  tenderly 
beloved,  for  the  last  time : to  think  that  ere  that  hour  the  next  night 
she  should  be  far,  far  away  from  him,  considered  as  a treacherous  and 
ungrateful  creature,  despised,  perhaps  execrated,  as  a source  of 
perpetual  disquiet  and  sorrow  to  him ! Her  heart  swelled  at  those 
ideas  with  feelings  she  thought  would  burst  it,  and  when  he  folded 
\er  to  his  bosom,  and  bid  her  be  cheerful  against  the  next  morning, 
sue  involuntarily  returned  the  pressure,  by  straining  him  to  her  heart 
in  convulsive  agitation,  whilst  a shower  of  tears  burst  from  her. 
Lord  Mortimer,  shocked  and  surprised  at  these  tears  and  emotions, 
re-seated  her,  for  her  agitation  was  contagious,  and  he  trembled  so 
much  he  could  not  support  her ; then  throwing  himself  at  her  feet, 
“My  Amanda!  my  beloved  girl!”  cried  he,  “what  is  the  matter! 
Is  any  wish  of  your  heart  yet  unfulfilled  ? If  so,  let  no  mistaken 
notion  of  delicacy  influence  you  to  conceal  it ; on  your  happiness  you 
know  mine  depends;  tell  me,  therefore,  I entreat,  I conjure  you,  tell 
me,  is  there  any  thing  I can  do  to  restore  you  to  cheerfulness  ?” 

“ Oh ! no,”  said  Amanda,  “ all  that  a mortal  could  do  to  serve  me, 
you  have  already  done,  and  my  gratitude,  the  fervent  sense  I have  of 
the  obligations  I lie  under  to  you,  I cannot  fully  express.  May 
heaven,”  raising  her  streaming  eyes,  “ may  heaven  recompense  youi 
goodness,  by  bestowing  the  choicest  of  its  blessings  on  you.” 

“ That,”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  half  smiling,  “ it  has  already  done  bj 
giving  you  to  me,  for  you  are  the  choicest  blessing  it  could  bestow ; 
but  tell  me  what  has  dejected  you  in  this  manner?  something  more 
than  fatigue  I am  sure. 

Amanda  assured  him  “ ho  was  mistaken,”  and  fearful  of  his  fur^ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


419 


ther  inquiries,  told  Mm,  “ slie  only  waited  for  liis  departure  to  retire 
to  rest,  wMch  she  ^ras  convinced  would  do  her  good.” 

Lord  Mortimer  instantly  rose  from  his  kneeling  posture : ‘‘  Fare- 

well, then,  my  dear  Amanda,”  cried  he,  “ farewell,  and  be  well  and 
cheerful  against  the  morning.” 

She  pressed  his  hand  between  hers,  and  laying  her  cold  wet  cheek 
upon  it : ‘‘  Farewell,”  said  she,  ‘‘  when  we  next  meet  I shall,  I trust, 
be  well  and  cheerful;  for  in  heaven  alone  (thought  she  at  that 
moment)  we  shall  ever  meet  again.” 

On  the  spot  in  which  he  left  her,  Amanda  stood  motionless,  till  she 
heard  the  hall  door  close  after  him ; all  composure  then  forsook  her, 
and,  in  an  agony  of  tears  and  sobs,  she  threw  herself  on  the  seat  he 
had  occupied.  The  good  prioress,  guessing  what  her  feelings  at  this 
minute  must  be,  was  at  hand,  and  came  in  with  drops  and  water, 
which  she  forced  her  to  tal'.e,  and  mingled  the  tear  of  sympathy 
with  hers. 

Her  soothing  attentions  in  a little  time  had  the  effect  she  desired. 
They  revived  in  some  degree  her  unhappy  young  friend,  who 
exclaimed,  “that  the  severest  tikl  she  could  ever  possibly  experience 
was  now  over.” 

“And  will,  I trust  and  believe,”  replied  the  prioress,  “even  in 
this  life,  be  yet  rewarded.” 

It  was  agreed  that  Amanda  should  put  on  her  habit,  and  bo  pre- 
pared against  the  man  came  for  her. — The  prioress  promised,  as  soon 
as  the  house  was  at  rest,  to  follow  her  to  her  chamber. — Amanda 
accordingly  went  to  her  apartment,  and  put  on  her  travelling  dress. 
She  was  soon  followed  by  the  prioress,  who  brought  in  bread,  wine, 
and  cold  chicken:  but  the  full  heart  of  Amanda  would  not  allow  her 
to  partake  of  them,  and  her  tears,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  restrain 
them,  again  burst  forth.  “ She  was  sure,”  she  said,  “ the  prioress 
would  immediately  let  her  know  if  any  intelligence  arrivexl  of  her 
brother,  and  she  again  besought  her  to  write  as  soon  as  possible  after 
her  departure,  and  to  be  minute.” 

She  left  the  letters,  one  for  Lord  Mortimer,  and  the  other  for  the 
prioress  on  the  table,  and  then,  with  a kind  of  melancholy  impatience, 
waited  for  the  man,  who  was  punctual  to  the  appointed  hour  of 
three,  and  announced  his  arrival  by  a tap  at  the  window.  Shq 
Instantly  rose  and  embraced  the  prioress  in  silence,  who,  almost  as 


42G 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


mucii  affected  as  herself,  had  only  power  to  say,  “ God  bless  yoa,  tny 
dear  child,  and  make  you  as  happy  as  you  deserve  to  he.” 

Amanda  shook  her  head  mournfully,  as  if  to  say,  “ she  expected  no 
happiness,”  and  then  softly  stepping  along  the  gallery,  opened  the 
hall  door,  where  she  found  the  man  waiting.  Her  little  trunk  was 
already  lying  in  the  hall:  she  pointed  it  out  to  him,  and  as  soon  as 
he  had  taken  it  he  departed.  Hever  did  any  being  feel  more  forlorn 
than  Amanda  now  did ; what  she  felt  when  quitting  the  marchio- 
ness’s was  comparatively  happiness  to  what  she  now  endured.  She 
then  looked  forward  to  the  protection,  comfort,  and  support  of  a ten- 
der parent ; now  she  had  nothing  in  view  which  could  in  the  least 
cheer  or  alleviate  her  feelings.  She  cast  her  mournful  eyes  around, 
and  the  objects  she  beheld  heightened,  if  possible,  her  angui^h.  She 
beheld  the  old  trees  which  shaded  the  grave  of  her  father  Wa,ving  in 
the  morning  breeze,  and  oh ! how  fervently  at  that  moment  did  she 
wish  that  by  his  side  she  was  laid  beneath  their  shelter ! she  turned 
from  them  with  a heart-rending  sigh,  which  reached  the  ea'*  of  the 
man  who  trudged  before  her.  He  instantly  turned,  and  seeing  her 
pale  and  trembling,  told  her  he  had  an  arm  at  her  service,  which 
she  gladly  accepted,  being  scarcely  able  to  support  herself : a small 
boat  was  waiting  for  them  about  half  a mile  above  Castle  Carher^-y ; it 
conveyed  them  in  a few  moments  to  the  vessel,  which  the  master 
previously  told  her  would  he  under  weigh  directly;  she  was  pi^ased 
to  find  his  wife  on  hoard,  who  conducted  Amanda  to  the  cabin, 
where  she  found  breakfast  laid  out  with  neatness  for  her.  She  took 
some  tea  and  a little  bread,  being  almost  exhausted  with  fatigue.  Her 
companion,  imputing  her  dejection  to  fears  of  crossing  the  sea,  assured 
her  the  passage  would  he  very  short,  and  bid  her  observe  how  plainly 
they  could  see  the  Scottish  hills,  now  partially  gilded  by  the  beams  of 
the  rising  sun ; hut  beautiful  as  they  appeared,  Amanda’s  eyes  were 
turned  from  them  to  a more  beautiful  object,  Castle  Carberry.  She 
then  asked  the  woman  if  she  thought  the  castle  could  be  seen  from 
the  opposite  coast,  and  she  replied  in  the  negative. 

‘‘  I am  sorry  for  it,”  said  Amanda  mournfully.  She  continued  at 
the  window  for  the  raelaficholy  pleasure  of  contemplating  ik  till 
compelled  by  sickness  to  lie  down  on  the  bed.  The  woman  attended 
her  with  the  most  assiduous  care,  and  about  four  o’clock  in  the  after- 
noon informed  her  they  had  reached  Port  Patrick.  Amanda  arose, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


421 


aa'i  sending  for  the  master,  told  him,  “ As  she  did  not  wish  to  go  to 
an  inn,  she  would  thank  him  to  hire  a chaise  to  carry  her  directly  to 
Mrs.  Macpherson’s.*’  He  said  she  should  be  obeyed,  and  Amanda 
having  settled  with  him  for  her  passage,  he  went  on  shore  for  that 
purpose,  and  soon  returned  to  inform  her  a carriage  was  ready. 
Amanda,  having  thanked  his  wife  for  her  kind  attention,  stepped  into 
the  boat,  and  entered  the  chaise  the  moment  she  landed.  Her  com- 
panion told  her  he  was  well  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Macpherson,  hav- 
ing frequently  carried  pacquets  from  Mrs.  Dermot  to  her.  She  lived 
about  five  miles  from  Port  Patrick,  he  said,  and  near  the  sea-coast. 
They  accordingly  soon  reached  her  habitation ; it  was  a small  low 
house,  of  a greyish  colour,  situated  in  a field  almost  covered  with 
thistles,  and  divided  from  the  road  by  a ragged  looking  wall ; the  sea 
lay  at  a small  distance  from  it;  the  coast  hereabouts  was  extremely 
rocky,  and  the  prospect  on  every  side  wild  and,  dreary  in  the 
extreme. 

Amanda’s  companion,  by  her  desire,  went  first  into  the  house,  to 
prepare  Mrs.  Macpherson  for  her  reception.  He  returned  in  a few 
minutes,  and  telling  her  she  was  happy  at  her  arrival,  conducted  her 
into  the  house.  From  a narrow  passage  they  turned  into  a small 
gloomy  parlour  with  an  clay  fioor.  Mrs.  Macpherson  was  sitting 
in  an  old  fashioned  arm  chair,  her  face  was  sharp  and  meagre,  her 
stature  low,  and,  like  Otway’s  ancient  beldame,  doubled  with  age; 
her  gown  was  grey  stuff,  and  though  she  was  so  low,  it  was  not  long 
enough  to  reach  her  ankle ; her  black  silk  apron  was  curtailed  in  the 
same  manner,  and  over  a little  mob  cap  she  wore  a handkerchief  tied 
under  her  chin.  She  just  nodded  to  Amanda  on  her  entrance,  and 
putting  on  a pair  of  large  spectacles,  surveyed  her  without  speaking. 
Amanda  presented  Mrs.  Dermot’s  introductory  letter,  and  then, 
though  unbidden,  seated  herself  on  the  window-seat  till  she  had 
perused  it. — Her  trunk  in  the  meantime  was  brought  in,  and  she  paid 
for  the  carriage,  requesting  at  the  same  time  the  master  of  the  vessel 
to  wait  till  she  had  heard  what  Mrs.  Macpherson  would  say.  At 
length  the  old  lady  broke  silence,  and  her  voice  was  quite  as  sharp  as 
her  face. 

“ So,  child,”  said  she,  again  surveying  Amanda,  and  elevating  iier 
spectacle.®  to  have  a better  opportunity  of  speaking,  “ wliy,  to  bo  sure 
I did  desire  my  cousin  to  get  me  a young  person,  but  not  one  bo 
young,  so  very  young,  as  you  appear  to  be.” 


422 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


“ Lord  bless  you,”  said  tlie  man,  if  this  is  a fault,  why  it  is  ono 
that  will  mend  every  day.” 

“ Ay,  ay,”  cried  the  old  dame,  “ but  it  will  mend  a little  too  slow 
for  me ; however,  child,  as  you  are  so  well  recommended,  I will  try 
you.  My  cousin  says  something  about  your  beiug  well  bom,  and 
having  seen  better  days:  however,  child,  I tell  you  beforehand,  I 
shall  not  consider  what  you  have  been,  but  what  you  are  now : I shall 
therefore  expect  you  to  be  mild,  regular,  and  attentive ; no  flaunting, 
no  gadding,  no  chattering,  but  staid,  sober,  and  modest.” 

“ Bless  you  heart,”  said  the  man,  “ if  you  look  in  her  face,  you  will 
see  she’ll  be  all  you  desire.” 

“ Ay,  ay,  so  you  may  say ; but  I should  be  very  sorry  to  depend 
upon  the  promise  of  a face ; like  the  heart,  it  is  often  treacherous 
and  deceitful;  so  pray,  young  woman,  tell  me,  and  remember  I 
expect  a conscientious  answer,  whether  you  think  you  \^dll  be  able  to 
do  as  I wish  ?” 

“Yes,  madam,”  replied  Amanda,  in  a voice  almost  choked  by  the 
variety  of  painful  emotions  she  experienced. 

“Well,  then  we  are  agreed,  as  you  know  the  salary  I give.”  The 
master  of  the  vessel  now  took  his  leave,  never  having  been  asked  by 
Mrs.  Maopherson  to  take  any  refreshment. 

The  heart  of  Amanda  sunk  within  her,  from  the  moment  she 
entered  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  door ; she  shuddered  at  being  left  with  so 
unsocial  a being  in  a place  so  wild  and  dreary;  a hovel  near  St. 
Catharine’s  she  would  have  thought  a palace  in  point  of  real  comfort 
to  her  present  habitation : as  she  then  could  have  enjoyed  the  sooth- 
ing society  of  the  tender  and  amiable  nuns.  The  presence  of  the 
master  of  the  vessel,  from  the  pity  and  concern  he  manifested  for  her, 
had  something  consolatory  in  it,  and  when  he  left  the  room  she  burst 
into  tears,  as  if  then,  and  not  till  then,  she  had  been  utterly  aban- 
doned. She  hastily  followed  him  out;  “Give  my  love,  my  best 
love,”  said  she,  sobbing  violently,  and  laying  her  trembling  hand  on 
his,  “ to  Mrs.  Dermot,  and  tell  her,  oh  I tell  her  to  write  directly,  and 
give  me  some  comfort.” 

“You  may  depend  on  my  doing  so,”  replied  he;  “but  cheer  up, 
my  dear  young  lady,  what  though  the  old  dame  in  the  parlour  is  a 
httle  cranky,  she  will  mend,  no  doubt;  so  heaven  bless  you,  and 
make  you  as  happy  as  you  deserve  to  be.” 

Sad  and  silent,  Amanda  returned  to  the  parloui',  and  seating  hei 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


423 


6olf  in  the  window,  strained  her  eyes  after  the  carriage,  which  had 
brought  her  to  this  dismal  spot, 

Well,  child,”  said  Mrs.  Macpherson,  “do  you  choose  anything?” 

“I  thank  you,  madam,”  replied  Amanda,  “I  should  like  a little 
tea.” 

“ Oh,  as  to  tea,  I have  just  taken  my  own,  and  the  things  are  a’d 
washed  and  put  by ; hut  if  you  would  like  a glass  of  spirits  and 
water,  and  a crust  erf  bread,  you  may  have  it.” 

Amanda  said  she  did  not. 

“Oh,  very  well,”  cried  Mrs.  Macpherson,  “I  shall  not  press  you, 
for  supper  will  soon  be  ready.  She  then  desired  Amanda  to  draw  a 
chair  near  hers,  and  began  torturing  her  with  a variety  of  minute 
and  trifling  questions,  relative  to  herself,  the  nuns,  and  the  neigh- 
Dourhood  of  St.  Catharine’s.  Amanda  briefly  said,  her  father  had 
been  in  the  army,  that  many  disappointments  and  losses  had  pre- 
vented his  making  any  provision  for  her,  and  that  on  his  death, 
which  had  happened  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  convent,  the  nuns 
had  taken  her  out  of  compassion  till  she  procured  an  establishment 
for  herself.” 

“ Ay,  and  a comfortable  one  you  have  procured  yourself,  I promise 
you,”  said  Mrs.  Macpherson,  “ if  it  is  not  your  own  fault.”  She  then 
told  Amanda,  “ she  would  amuse  her  by  showing  her  her  house  and 
other  concerns.”  This,  indeed,  was  easily  done,  as  it  consisted  but 
of  the  parlour,  two  closets  adjoining  it,  and  the  kitchen  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  entry:  the  other  concerns  were  a small  garden, 
planted  with  kale,  and  the  field  covered  with  thistles : “ a good  com 
fortable  tenement  this,’l  cried  Mrs.  Macpherson,  shaking  her  head 
with  much  satisfaction,  as  she  leaned  upon  her  ebony-headed  cane, 
and  cast  her  eyes  around.  She  bid  Amanda  admire  the  fine  prospect 
before  the  door,  and  calling  to  a red-haired  and  bare-legged  girl, 
desired  her  to  cut  some  thistles  to  put  into  the  fire,  and  hasten  the 
boiling  of  the  kale.  On  returning  to  the  parlour  she  unlocked  a 
press,  and  took  out  a pair  of  coarse  brown  sheets  to  air  for  Amanda. 
She  herself  slept  in  one  closet,  and  in  the  other  was  a bed  for 
Amanda,  laid  on  a half-decayed  bedstead,  without  curtains,  and 
covered  with  a blue  stuff  quilt : the  closet  was  lighted  by  one  small 
window,  which  looked  into  the  garden,  and  its  furniture  consisted  of 
a broken  ciiair,  and  a piece  of  looking-glass  stuck  to  the  wall. 


424 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABREY, 


The  promised  supper  was  at  length  served ; it  consisted  of  a few 
heads  of  kale,  some  oaten  bread,  a jug  of  water,  and  a small  phial 
half  full  of  spirits,  which  Amanda  would  not  taste,  and  the  old  lady 
herself  took  but  sparingly;  they  were  lighted  by  a small  candle, 
which,  on  retiring  to  their  closets,  Mrs.  Macpherson  cut  between 
them, 

Amanda  felt  relieved  by  being  alone.  She  could  now  without 
restraint  indulge  her  tears,  and  her  reflection ; that  she  could  never 
enjoy  any  satisfaction  with  a being  so  ungracious  in  her  manners,  and 
so  contracted  in  her  notions,  she  foresaw;  but  disagreeable  as  her 
situation  must  be,  she  felt  inclined  to  continue  in  it,  from  the  idea  of 
its  giving  her  more  opportunities  of  hearing  from  Mrs.  Dermot  than 
she  should  have  in  almost  any  other  place,  and  by  these  opportunities 
alone  could  she  expect  to  hear  of  Lord  Mortimer,  and  to  hear  of  him 
even  the  most  trifling  circumstance,  though  divided,  for  ever  divided 
from  him,  would  be  a source  of  exquisite  though  melancholy  pleasure. 

To  think  she  should  hear  of  him,  at  once  soothed  and  fed  her 
melancholy,  it  lessened  the  violence  of  sorrow,  yet  without  abating 
its  intenseness,  it  gave  a delicious  sadness  to  her  soul,  she  thought  it 
would  be  ill  exchanged  for  any  feelings  short  of  these  she  must  have 
experienced  if  her  wishes  had  been  accomplished;  she  enjoyed  the 
pensive  luxury  of  virtuous  grief,  which  mitigates  the  sharp 

With  gracious  drops 
Of  cordial  pleasure — 

and  which  Akenside  so  beautifully  describes;  nor  can  I forbear 
quoting  the  lines  he  has  written  to  illustrate  this  truth : 

Ask  the  faithful  youth 

Why  the  cold  urn  of  her,  whom  long  he  lov’d, 

So  often  fills  his  arms,  so  often  draws 
His  lonely  footsteps  at  the  silent  hour. 

To  pay  the  mournful  tribute  of  his  tears? 

0,  he  will  tell  thee,  that  the  wealth  of  worlds 
Should  ne’er  seduce  his  bosom  to  forego 
That  sacred  hour,  when  stealing  from  the  house 
Of  care  and  envy,  sweet  remembrance  soothes 
With  virtue’s  kindest  looks  his  aching  heart. 

And  turns  his  tears  to  rapture. 

Fatigued  by  the  contending  emotions  she  experienced  as  well  as  tha 
sickness  she  went  through  at  sea,  Amanda  soon  retired  to  her  flock 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


425 


bed,  and  fell  into  a profound  slumber,  in  which  slui  continued  tih 
roused  in  the  morning  by  the  shrill  voice  of  Mrs.  Macpherson, 
exclaiming,  as  she  rapped  at  the  door,  Come,  come,  Frances,  it  is 
time  to  rise.” 

Amanda  started  from  her  sleep,  forgetting  both  the  name  she  had 
adopted,  and  the  place  where  she  was : hut  Mrs.  Macpherson  again 
calling  her  to  rise,  restored  her  to  her  recollection.  She  replied  sho 
would  attend  her  directly,  and  hurrying  on  her  clothes  was  with  her 
in  a few  minutes.  She  found  the  old  lady  seated  at  the  breakfast 
table,  who,  instead  of  returning  her  salutation,  said,  “ that  on  account 
of  her  fatigue  she  excused  her  lying  so  long  in  bed  this  morning,  for 
it  was  now  near  eight  o’clock ; but  in  future  she  would  expect  her  to 
rise  before  six  in  summer,  and  seven  in  winter,  adding  as  there  was 
no  clock,  she  would  rap  at  the  door  for  that  purpose  every  morning.” 

Amanda  assured  her  “she  was  fond  of  rising  early,  and  always 
accustomed  to  it.”  The  tea  was  now  poured  out,  it  was  of  the  worst 
kind,  and  sweetened  with  coarse  brown  sugar,  the  bread  was  oaten, 
and  there  was  no  butter.  Amanda,  unused  to  such  unpalatable  fare, 
swallowed  a little  of  it  with  difficulty,  and  then  with  some  hesitation, 
said,  “she  would  prefer  milk  to  tea.”  Mrs.  Macpherson  frowned 
exceedingly  at  this,  and,  after  continuing  silent  a few  minutes,  said, 
‘ she  had  really  made  tea  for  two  people,  and  slie  could  not  think  of 
having  it  wasted  ; besides  (she  added)  the  economy  of  her  house  was 
so  settled  she  could  not  infringe  it  for  any  one.  She  kept  no  cow 
herself,  and  only  took  in  as  much  milk  as  served  her  tea  and  an  old 
tabby  cat.” 

Amanda  replied  it  was  of  no  consequence,  and  Mrs  Macpherson 
said,  indeed  she  supposed  so,  and  muttered  something  of  people 
giving  themselves  airs  they  had  no  pretension  to.  The  tea  table  was 
removed  before  nine,  when  the  school  began ; it  consisted  of  about 
thirty  girls,  most  of  them  daughters  to  farmers  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Amanda  and  they  being  introduced  to  each  other,  and  she  being  pre- 
viously informed  what  they  were  taught,  was  desired  to  commence 
the  task  of  instructing  them  entirely  herself  that  day,  as  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson wanted  to  observe  her  manner — a most  unpleasant  task 
indeed  for  poor  Amanda,  whose  mind  and  body  were  both  harassed 
by  anxiety  and  fatigue.  As  she  had  undertaken  it,  however,  she 
resolved  to  go  through  it  with  as  much  cheerfulness  and  alacrity  as 


426 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


possible ; she  accordingly  acquitted  herself  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mrs, 
Macpherson,  who  only  found  fault  with  her  too  much  gendeness,  say* 
ing,  the  children  would  never  fear  her. , At  two  the  school  broke  up, 
and  Amanda  almost  as  delighted  as  the  children  to  be  at  liberty,  was 
running  into  the  garden  to  try  if  the  air  would  be  of  use  to  a violent 
head-ache,  when  she  was  called  back,  to  put  the  forms  and  other 
things  in  order ; she  coloured,  and  stood  motionless,  till  recollecting 
that  if  she  refused  to  obey  Mrs.  Macpherson,  a quarrel  would  proba- 
bly ensue,  which,  circumstanced  as  she  was,  without  knowing  where 
to  go,  would  be  dreadful,  she  silently  performed  what  she  had  been 
desired  to  do.  Dinner  was  then  brought  in;  it  was  as  simple  and  as 
sparing  as  a Bramin  could  desire  it  to  be.  'When  over,  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson composed  herself  to  take  a nap  in  the  large  chair,  without 
making  any  kind  of  apology  to  Amanda. 

Left  at  liberty,  Amanda  would  now  have  walked  out ; but  it  had 
just  began  to  rain,  and  every  thing  looked  dreary  and  desolate;  from 
the  window  in  which  she  pensively  sat,  she  had  a view  of  the  sea ; it 
looked  black  and  tempestuous,  and  she  could  distinguish  its  awful 
and  melancholy  roaring  as  it  dashed  against  the  rocks.  The  little 
servant  girl,  as  she  cleaned  the  kitchen,  sung  a dismal  Scotch  ditty,  so 
that  all  conspired  to  oppress  the  spirits  of  Amanda  with  a dejection 
greater  than  she  had  ever  before  experienced:  all  hope  was  now 
extinct,  the  social  ties  of  life  seemed  broken  never  more  to  be  re-uni- 
ted. She  had  now  no  father,  no  friend,  no  lover,  as  heretofore,  to 
soothe  her  feelings,  or  alleviate  her  sorrows.  Like  the  poor  Belvidera^ 
she  might  have  said, 

“ There  was  a time 
Her  cries  and  sorrows 
Were  not  despis’d,  when,  if  she  chanc’d  to  sigh, 

Or  but  look  sad,  a friend  or  parent 
Would  have  taken  her  in  their  arms. 

Eas’d  her  declining  head  upon  their  breasts, 

And  never  left  her  titi  he  found  the  cause : 

But  now  let  her  weep  seas. 

Cry  till  she  rend  the  earth,  sigh  till  she  burst 
Her  heart  asunder,  she  is  disregarded.” 

Like  a tender  sapling  transplanted  from  its  native  soil,  she  seemed 
to  stand  alone  exposed  to  every  adverse  blast.  Her  tears  gushed 
forth,  and  fell  in  showers  down  her  pale  cheeks.  Sbe  sighed  lorth 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY.  42^1 

the  name  of  her  father;  “ Oh ! dear  and  most  benignant  of  men,”  she 
exclaimed,  ‘‘my  father  and  my  friend,  were  you  living  I should  not 
be  so  wretched ; pity  and  consolation  would  then  be  mine : Oh ! my 
father,  one  of  the  dreariest  caverns  in  yonder  rocks  would  be  an 
asylum  of  comfort  were  you  with  me;  but  I am  selfish  in  these 
regrets,  certain  as  I am,  that  you  exchanged  this  life  of  wretchedness 
for  one  of  eternal  peace,  for  one  where  you  were  again  united  to  your 
Malvina.” 

Her  thoughts  adverted  to  what  Lord  Mortimer,  in  all  probability 
now  thought  of  her ; but  this  was  too  dreadful  to  dwell  upon,  con- 
vinced as  she  was,  that  from*  appearances,  he  must  think  most 
unfavourably  of  her.  Ilis  picture,  which  hung  in  her  bosom,  she 
drew  out : she  gazed  with  agonizing  tenderness  upon  it ; she  pressed 
it  to  her  lips  and  prayed  for  the  original.  From  this  indulgence  of 
sorrow  she  was  disturbed  by  the  waking  of  Mrs.  Macplierson.  She 
hastily  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  hid  the  beloved  picture.  The 
evening  past  most  disagreeably.  Mrs.  Macpherson  was  tedious  and 
inquisitive  in  her  discourse,  and  it  was  almost  as  painful  to  listen  as 
to  answer  her.  Amanda  was  happy  when  the  hour  of  retiring  to 
bed  arrived,  and  relieved  her  from  what  might  be  called  a kind  of 
mental  bondage. 

Such  was-  the  first  day  Amanda  passed  in  her  new  habitation,  and 
a week  elapsed  in  the  same  manner  without  any  variation,  except 
that  on  Sunday  she  had  a cessation  from  her  labours,  and  went  to 
the  kirk  with  Mrs.  Macpherson.  At  the  end  of  the  week  she  found 
herself  so  extremely  ill  from  the  fatigue  and  confinement  she  endured, 
as  Mrs.  Macpherson  would  not  let  her  walk  out,  saying,  “gadders 
were  good  for  nothing ;”  that  she  told  her,  “ except  allowed  to  go  out 
every  evening  she  must  leave  her,  as  she  could  not  bear  so  sedentary 
a life.”  Mrs.  Macpherson  looked  disconcerted  and  grumbled  a great 
deal ; but  as  Amanda  spoke  in  a resolute  manner  she  was  frightened, 
lest  she  should  put  her  threats  into  execution,  she  was  so  extremely 
useful  in  the  school,  and  at  last  told  her,  “ she  might  take  as  much 
exercise  as  she  pleased,  every  day  after  dinner.” 

Amanda  gladly  availed  herself  of  this  permission ; she  explored  all 
the  romantic  paths  about  the  house,  but  the  one  she  chiefly  delighted 
to  take  was  that  which  led  to  the  sea ; she  loved  to  ramble  about  the 
beach,  when  fatigued  to  sit  down  upon  the  fragment  of  a rock,  and 


428 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


xooked  towards  the  opposite  shore  ; vainly  then  would  she  try  to 
discover  some  of  the  objects  she  knew  so  well ; Castle  Carberry  was 
utterly  undistinguishable ; hut  she  knew  the  spot  on  which  it  stood, 
and  derived  a melancholy  pleasure  from  looking  that  way. 

In  these  retired  rambles  she  would  frequently  indulge  her  tears, 
and  gaze  upon  the  picture  of  Lord  Mortimer.  She  feared  no  observa- 
tion, the  rooks  formed  a kind  of  recess  about  her,  and  in  going  to 
them  she  seldom  met  a creature. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Of  joys  departed — never  to  return, 

How  bitter  the  remembrance. 

Blaib. 

A FORTNIGHT  passed  in  this  way,  and  she  began  to  feel  surprise  and 
uneasiness  at  not  hearing  from  Mrs.  Dermot : if  much  longer  silent, 
she  resolved  on  writing,  feeling  it  impossible  to  endure  much  longer 
the  agony  her  ignorance  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  proceedings  gave  her. 
The  very  morning  previous  to  the  one  she  had  fixed  for  writing,  sho 
saw  a sailor  coming  to  the  house,  and  believing  he  was  the  bearer  of 
a letter  to  her,  she  forgot  everything  but  her  feelings  at  the  moment, 
and  starting  from  her  seat  ran  from  the  room — ^she  met  him  a few  yards 
from  the  house,  and  then  perceiving  he  was  one  of  the  sailors  of  tho 
vessel  she  had  come  over  in — ‘‘You  have  a letter  for  me,  I hope’^” 
said  Amanda.  The  man  nodded,  and  fumbling  in  his  bosom  for  a 
moment,  pulled  out  a large  packet,  which  Amanda  snatched  with 
eager  transport  from  him ; and  knowing  she  could  not  attempt  to 
bring  him  into  the  house  for  refreshment,  gave  him  a crown  to 
procure  it  elsewhere,  which  he  received  with  thankfulness,  and 
departed.  She  then  returned  to  the  parlour,  and  was  hastening  to 
her  closet  to  read  the  letter,  when  Mrs.  Macpherson  stopped  her. 
“ Hey-dey,”  cried  she,  “ what  is  the  matter  ? What  is  all  this  fuss 
about  ? Why,  one  would  think  that  was  a love-letter,  you  are  so  very 
eager  to  read  it.” 

“ It  is  not,  then,  I can  assure  you,”  said  Amanda. 

“Well,  well,  and  who  is  it  from?” — Amanda  reflected,  that  if  she 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


429 


said  from  Mrs.  Dermot,  a mimber  of  impertinent  questions  :wonld  1)6 
asked  her,  she  therefore  replied,  from  a very  particular  friend!” 
‘‘From  a very  particular  friend!  Well,  I suppose  there  is  nothing 
about  life  or  death  in  it,  so  you  may  wait  till  after  dinner  to  read  it, 
and  pray  sit  down  now,  and  hear  the  children  their  spelling  lessons.” 
This  was  a tantalizing  moment  to  Amanda;  she  stood  hesitating 
whether  she  should  obey,  till  reflecting,  that  if  she  went  now  to  read  the 
packet,  she  would  most  probably  be  interrupted  ere  she  had  got 
through  half  the  contents,  she  resolved  on  putting  it  up  till  after  din- 
ner. The  moment  at  last  came  for  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  usual  nap,  and 
Amanda  instantly  hastened  to  a recess  amongst  the  rocks,  where 
^eating  herself  she  broke  the  seal : the  envelop  contained  two  letters : 
the  first  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  was  directed  in  Lord  Cherbury’s  hand. 
She  trembled,  tore  it  open  and  read  as  follows : 

“to  miss  fitzalan. 

“In  vain,  my  dear  madam,  do  you  say  you  never  will  receive 
pecuniary  favours  from  me.  It  is  not  you,  but  I,  should  lie  under 
oblrgations  from  their  acceptance,  I should  deem  myself  the  most 
ungrateful  of  mankind,  if  I did  not  insist  on  carrying  this  point : I 
am  just  returned  to  London,  and  shall  immediately  order  my  lawyer 
to  draw  up  a deed,  entitling  you  to  three  hundred  pounds  a year, 
which  when  completed  I shall  transmit  to  the  prioress  (as  I have  this 
letter)  to  send  to  you.  I am  sensible,  indeed,  that  I never  can 
recompense  the  sacrifice  you  liave  made  me,  the  feelings  it  has 
excited  I shall  not  attempt  to  express,  because  language  could  never 
do  them  justice ; but  you  may  conceive  what  I must  feel  for  the  being 
who  has  preserved  me  from  dishonour  and  destruction.  I am  informed 
Lord  Mortimer  has  left  Ireland,  and  therefore  daily  expect  him  in  town. 
I have  now  not  only  every  hope,  but  every  prospect  of  his  complying 
with  my  wishes : This,  I imagine,  will  be  rather  pleasing  to  you  to 
hear,  that  you  may  know  that  the  sacrifice  you  have  made  is  not 
made  in  vain ; but  will  be  attended  with  all  the  good  consequences  I 
expected  to  derive  from  it.  * I should  again  enjoy  a tolerable  degree 
of  peace  were  I assured  you  were  happy ; but  this  is  an  assurance  I 
will  hope  soon  to  receive,  for  if  you  are  not  happy,  who  has  a right 
to  expect  being  so?  you,  whose  virtue  is  so  pure,  whose  generosity  is 
so  noble,  so  heroic,  so  far  superior  to  any  I have  ever  met  with. 

“ That  in  this  world,  as  well  as  in  the  next,  you  may  be  rewarded 
it,  is,  dear  madam,  the  sincere  wish  of  him,  who  has  the  honour 
l;0  subscribe  himself, 

‘ Your  most  grateful,  most  obliged, 

“ A.nd  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

“ CnEEBUEY.” 


430 


OHILDREK  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


“Unfeeling  man!”  exclaimed  Amanda,  “how  little  is  heart 
interested  in  what  you  write,  and  how  slight  do  you  make  of  the 
sacrifice  I have  made  you,  how  cruelly  mention  your  hopes  which  are 
derived  from  the  destruction  of  mine.  Ko,  sooner  would  I wander 
from  door  to  door  for  charity,  than  be  indebted  to  your  ostentatious 
gratitude  for  support,  you  whose  treachery  and  vile  deceit  have  ruined 
my  happiness.”  She  closed  the  letter,  and  committing  it  to  her 
pocket,  took  up  the  other,  which  she  saw  by  the  direction  was  from 
her  dear  Mrs.  Dermot. 


“to  miss  doxald. 

“Ah!  my  dear  child,  why  extort  a promise  from  me  of  being 
minute  in  relating  every  thing  which  happened  in  consequence  of 
your  departure,  a promise  so  solemnly  given,  that  I dare  not  recede 
from  it ; yet  most  unwillingly  do  I keep  it,  sensible  as  I am  that  the 
intelligence  I have  to  communicate  will  but  aggravate  your  sorrows. 
Methinks  I hear  you  exclaim  at  this ; surely,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dermot, 
you  who  know  my  disposition  and  temper  so  well,  might  suppose  I 
would  receive  such  intelligence  with  a fortitude  and  patience  that 
would  prevent  its  materially  injuring  me;  well,  my  dear,  hoping  this 
will  be  the  case,  I begin,  without  further  delay,  to  communieato 
particulars. 

“You  left  me,  you  may  remember,  about  three  o’clock ; I then 
went  to  bed,  but  so  fatigued  and  oppressed  I could  scarcely  sleep,  and 
and  was  quite  unrefreshed  by  what  I did  get.  After  prayers  I 
repaired  to  the  parlour,  where  the  assiduous  care  of  sister  Mary  had 
already  prepared  every  thing  for  your  breakfast  and  Lord  Mortimer’s. 
I told  the  sisters  not  to  appear  till  they  were  sent  for.  I had  not 
been  long  alone  when  Lord  Mortimer  came  in,  cheerful,  blooming, 
animated.  Never  did  I see  happiness  so  strongly  impressed  in  any 
countenance  as  in  his ; he  looked  indeed  the  lover  about  receiving 
the  precious  reward  of  constancy.  He  asked  me  had  1 seen  you? 
I answered.  No.  He  soon  grew  impatient,  said  you  were  a lazy  girl, 
and  feared  you  would  make  a bad  traveller.  He  then  rang  the  bell 
and  desired  the  maid  to  go  and  call  you.  Oh ! my  dear  girl,  my 
heart  almost  died  within  me  at  this  moment ; I averted  my  head  and 
pretended  to  be  looking  in  the  garden,  to  conceal  my  confusion.  The 
maid  returned  in  a few  minutes,  and  said  you  were  not  above.  Well,* 
said  Lord  Mortimer,  she  is  in  some  other  apartment,  pray  search  and 
hasten  her  hither.  In  a few  minutes  after  she  departed,  sister  Mary, 
all  pale  and  breathless,  rushed  into  the  room.  “ Oh,  heaven’s!”  cried 
she,  “ Miss  Fitzalan  cannot  be  found,  but  here  are  two  letters  I found 
on  her  dressing  table,  one  for  you,  madam,  and  one  for  Lord  Morti- 
mer.” I know  not  how  he  .looked  at  this  instant,  for  a guilty  con 
sciousness  came  over  his  mind,  which  prevented  my  raising  my  e}  es 
to  liis.  I took  the  letter  in  silence,  opened,  but  had  no  power  to 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY, 


4S1 


read  \t.  Sister  Mary  stood  by  me,  wringing  her  hands  and  weeping, 
as  she  exclaimed,  ‘‘What — what  does  she  say  to  you?”  I could 
neither  answer  her  nor  move  till  a deep  sigh  or  rather  groan  from 
Lord  Mortimer  roused  me.  I started  from  my  seat,  and  perceived 
him  pale  and  motionless,  the  letter  open  in  his  hand,  upon  which  his 
eyes  were  ri vetted.  I threw  open  the  garden  door  to  give  him  air ; 
this  a little  revived  him. 

“Be  comforted,  my  lord,”  said  I.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully, 
and  Avaving  his  hand  for  me  neither  to  speak  or  follow  him,  passed 
into  the  garden.  “Blessed  heaven!”  said  sister  Mary  again,  “what 
does  she  say  to  you  ?”  I gave  her  your  letter  and  desired  her  to  read 
it  aloud,  for  the  tears  which  flowed  at  the  affecting  situation  of  Lord 
Mortimer,  quite  obscured  my  sight ; and  here  my  d?ear  child,  I must 
declare  that  you  have  been  too  generous,  and  also,  that  the  sum  you 
betrayed  us  into  taking,  is  but  considered  as  a loan  for  us ; but,  to 
return  to  my  first  subject,  the  alarm  concerning  you  now  became 
general,  and  the  nuns  crowded  into  the  room,  grief  and  consternation 
in  every  countenance.  In  about  half  an  hour  I saw  Lord  Mortimer 
returning  to  the  parlour,  and  I then  dismissed  them.  He  had  been 
endeavouring  to  compose  himself,  but  his  efforts  for  doing  so  Avere 
meffectual.  He  trembled,  was  pale  as  death,  and  spoke  Avith  a falter- 
ing voice.  He  gave  me  your  letter  to  read,  and  I put  mine  into  his 
hand.  “ Well,  my  lord,”  said  I,  on  perusing  it,  “ Ave  must  rather  pity 
than  condemn  her.” 

“ From  my  soul,”  cried  he,  “ I pity  her — -I  pity  such  a being  as 
Amanda  Fitzalan,  for  being  the  slave,  the  prey  of  vice  ; but  she  has 
been  cruel  to  me,  she  has  deceived,  inhumanely  deceived  me,  .and 
blasted  my  peace  forever.” 

“Ah,  my  lord!”  I replied,  “thougli  appearances  are  against  her,  I 
can  never  believe  her  guilty ; she  who  performed  all  the  duties  of  a 
child  as  Amanda  Fitzalan  did,  and  Avho,  to  my  certain  knoAvledge, 
was  preparing  herself  for  a life  of  poverty,  can  never  be  a victim  to 
vice.” 

“ Mention  her  no  more,”  cried  he,  “ her  name  is  like  a dagger  to 
ray  heart;  the  suspicions,  Avhich  but  a feAV  nights  ago  I- could  have 
killed  myself  for  entertaining,  are  noAV  confirmed ; they  intruded  on 
my  mind  from  seeing  Belgrave  haunt  this  place,  and  from  finding  her 
secreted  amidst  the  ruins  at  a late  hour.  Ah,  heavens!  Avhen  I 
noticed  her  confusion,  Iioav  easily  did  she  exculpate  herself  to  a heart 
prepossessed  like  mine  in  her  favour.  Unhappy — unfortunate  girl — • 
sad  and  pitiable  is  tliy  fate!  but  may  an  early  repentance  snatch  thee 
from  the  villain  Avho  noAV  triumphs  in  thy  ruin,  and  may  Ave,  since 
thus  separated,  never  meet  again.  So  Avell,”  continued  he,  “ am  I 
convinced  of  the  cause  of  her  flight,  that  I shall  not  make  one  inquiry 
after  her.”  I again  attempted  to  speak  in  your  justification,  but  he 
silenced  me ; I begged  he  Avould  alloAv  me  to  get  him  breakfast.  He 
could  touch  nothing,  and  said  he  must  return  directly  to  Castle  Oar- 
berry,  but  promised  in  the  course  of  the  day  to  see  me  again.  I fol- 
lowed him  into  the  hall;  at  the  sight  of  your  corded  boxes  he  started, 


432 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY 


and  shrunk  back  with  that  kind  of  melancholy  horror  which  wc 
involuntarily  feel  when  viewing  any  thing  that  belonged  to  a dear 
lost  friend.  1 saw  his  emotions  were  agonizing;  he  hid  his  face  with 
his  handkerchiet,  and  with  a hasty  step  ascended  to  his  carriage, 
which,  with  a travelling  chaise,  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

I own  I was  often  tempted,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  to  tell 
him  all  I knew  about  you ; but  the  promise  I had  given  you  still  rose 
to  my  view,  and  I felt,  without  your  permission,  I could  not  break  it; 
yet,  my  dear,  it  is  shocking  to  me  to  have  such  imputations  cast  on 
you.  We  cannot  blame  Lord  Mortimer  for  them;  situated  as  you 
are  with  him,  your  conduct  has  naturally  excited  the  most  injurious 
suspicions ; surely,  my  child,  though  not  allowed  to  solve  the  mystery 
which  has  separated  you  from  him,  you  nr;ay  be  allowed  to  vindicate 
your  conduct,  the  sacrifice  of  fame  and  happiness  is  too  much;  con- 
sider and  weigh, well  what  I say,  and  if  possible,  authorize  me  to 
inform  Lord  Mortimer  that  I know  of  your  retreat,  and  that  you 
have  retired  neither  to  a lover  or  to  a friend,  but  to  indigence  and 
obscurity,  led  thither  by  a fatal  necessity  which  you  are  bound  to 
conceal,  and  feel  more  severely  from  that  circumstance ; he  would,  I 
am  confident,  credit  my  words,  and  then,  instead  of  condemning, 
would  join  me  in  pitying  you.  The  more  I refiect  on  your  unaccount- 
able separation,  the  more  am  I bewildered  in  conjectures  relative  to 
it,  and  convinced  more  strongly  than  ever  of  the  frailty  of  human 
joy,  which,  like  a summer  cloud,  is  bright,  but  transitory  in  its  splen- 
dour.— Lord  Mortimer  had  left  the  convent  about  two  hours,  when 
his  man  arrived  to  dismiss  the  travelling  chaise  and  attendants : I 
went  out  and  inquired  after  his  lord.  “He  is  very  bad,  madam,’' 
said  he,  “ and  this  has  been  a sad  morning  for  us  all.”  Hever,  my 
dear  Miss  Fitzalan,  did  I,  or  the  sisterhood,  pass  so  melancholy  a day. 
About  five  in  the  afternoon  I received  another  visit  from  Lord  Mor- 
timer ; I was  alone  in  the  parlour,  which  he  entered  with  an  appear- 
ance of  the  deepest  melancholy ; one  of  his  arms  was  in  a sling ; 1 
was  terrified,  lest  he  and  Belgrave  had  met — He  conjectured,  I fancy, 
the  occasion  of  the  terror  my  countenance  expressed,  for  he  immedi- 
ately said  he  had  been  ill  on  returning  to  Castle  Oarberry,  and  was 
bled.  He  was  setting  oflT  for  Dublin  directly,  he  said,  from  whence 
he  intended  to  embark  for  England : but  I could  not  depart,  my  dear 
good  friend,  (continued  he,)  without  bidding  you  farewell : besides  I 
want  to  assure  you,  that  any  pronaise  which  the  unfortunate  girl 
made  you  in  my  name  I shall  hold  sacred.  I knew  he  alluded  to  the 
fifty  pounds  which  he  desired  you  to  tell  me  should  be  annually 
remitted  to  our  house : I instantly  therefore  replied,  that  we  had 
already  been  rewarded  beyond  our  expectation  or  desires  for  any 
little  attention  we  showed  Miss  Fitzalan : but  his  generous  resolution 
was  not  to  be  shaken.  He  looked  weak  and  exhausted.  I beg^d 
permission  to  make  tea  for  him  ere  he  commenced  his  journey.  Ho 
consented.  I went  out  of  the  room  to  order  in  the  things.  When  I 
returned  he  was  standing  at  the  window  which  looked  into  the  gar- 
den, so  absorbed  in  meditation,  he  did  not  hear  me.  I heard  him 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


433 


sav,  “ cruel  Amanda ! is  it  thus  you  have  rewarded  my  sufferings  1” 

I retreated  lest  he  should  he  confused  by  supposing  himself  over- 
heard, and  did  not  return  till  the  maid  brought  in  the  tea  things. 

“ When  he  arose  to  depart  he  looked  wavering  and  agitated,  as  if 
there  was  something  on  his  mind  he  wanted  courage  to  say.  At  last, 
in  a faltering  voice,  while  the  deadly  paleness  of  his  complexion  gave 
way  to  a deep  crimson,  he  said,  I left  Miss  Fitzalan’s  letter  with 
you.” 

“ Ah ! my  dear ! never  did  man  love  woman  better  than  he  did, 
than  he  now  loves  you.  I took  the  letter  from  my  pocket,  and  pre- 
sented It  to  him.  He  put  it  in  his  bosom  with  an  emotion  that 
shook  his  whole  frame.  I hailed  this  as  a favourable  opportunity  for 
again  speaking  in  your  favour : I bid  him  retrospect  your  past  actions, 
and  judge  from  them  whether  you  could  be  guilty  of  a crime. — He 
stopped  me  short;  and  begged  me  to  drop  a subject  he  was  unable  to 
bear.  Had  he  been  less  credulous  he  said,  he  should  now  have  been . 
much  happier : then  wringing  my  hand  he  bid  me  farewell,  in  a voic.e 
and  with  a look,  that  drew  tears  from  me.  ‘‘  Ah,  my  dear  madam !” 
cried  he,  “ when  this  day  commenced,  how  differently  did  I think  it 
would  have  terminated.” 

“ I attended  him  to  his  carriage ; he  was  obliged  to  lean  upon  his 
man  as  he  ascended  it,  and  his  looks-^  and  agitation  proclaimed  the 
deepest  distress.  I have  sent  repeatedly  to  Castle  Carberry  since  his 
departure  to  inquire  about  him,  and  have  been  informed,  that  they 
expect  to  hear  nothing  of  him  till  Lord  Cherbury’s  agent  comes  into 
the  country,  which  will  not  be  these  three  months. 

‘‘  I have  heard  much  of  the  good  he  did  in  the  neighbourhood : be 
was  a bounteous  and  benevolent  spirit  indeed  ; to  our  community  he 
has  been  a liberal  benefactor,  and  our  prayers  are  daily  offered 
up  for  his  restoration  to  health  and  tranquillity.  Amorvg  his  other 
actions,  when  in  Dublin,  about  three  months  ago,  he  ordered  a monu- 
ment to  the  memory  of  Captain  Fitzalan,  which  has  been  brought 
down  since  your  departure,  and  put  ijito  the  parish  church  where  he 
is  interred.  I sent  sister  Mary  and  another  of  the  nuns  the  other 
evening  to  see  it,  and  they  brought  me  a description  of  it ; it  is  a 
white  marble  urn,  ornamented  with  a foliage  of  laurel,  and  standing 
upon  a pedestal  of  grey,  on  which  the  name  of  the  deceased,  and 
words  to  the  following  effect,  are  inscribed,  namely,  “ That  he  whose 
memory  it  perpetuates,  performed  the  duties  of  a Christian  and  a 
soldier,  with  a fidelity  and  zeal  that  now  warrants  his  enjoying  a 
blessed  recompense  for  both.” 

‘‘I  know  this  proof  of  respect  to  your  father  will  deeply  affect  you; 
but  I would  not  omit  telling  it,  because,  though  it  will  affect,  I am  . 
confident  it  will  also  please  you.  The  late  events  have  cast  a gloom 
aver  all  our  spirits.  Sister  Mary  now  prays  more  than  ever,  and  you 
know  I have  often  told  her  she  was  only  fit  for  a religious  vocation : 
it  is  a bad  world  she  says  we  live  in,  and  she  is  glad  she  has  so  little 
to  say  to  it. 

“ I am  longing  to  hear  from  you.  Pray  tell  me  how  you  like  Mrs. 

19 


434 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Macplierson ; I have  not  seen  her  since  her  youth,  and  years  often 
produce  as  great  a change  in  the  temper  as  the  face ; at  any  rate  your 
present  situation  is  too  obscure  for  you  to  continue  in,  and  as  soon  as 
your  thoughts  are  collected  and  composed  you  must  look  out  for 
another.  I hope  you  will  be  constant  in  writing ; but  I tell  you 
beforehand,  you  must  not  expect  me  to  be  punctual  in  my  answers ; I 
liave  been  so  long  disused  to  writing,  and  my  eyes  are  grown  so 
weak ; this  letter  has  been  the  work  of  many  days,  besides,  I have 
really  nothing  interesting  to  communicate:  whenever  I have,  you 
may  be  assured  I shall  not  lose  a moment  in  informing  you. 

The  woman  was  extremely  thankful  for  the  five  guineas  you  left 
her.  Lord  Mortimer  sent  five  more  by  his  man,  so  that  she  thinks 
herselt*  well  rewarded  for  any  trouble  or  disappointment  she  experi- 
enced.— If  you  wish  to  have  any  of  your  things  sent  to  you,  acquaint 
me,  you  know  I shall  never  want  an  opportunity  by  the  master  of  the 
vessel.  He  speaks  largely  of  your  generosity  to  him,  and  expresses 
much  pity  at  seeing  so  young  a person  in  such  melancholy.  May 
heaven,  if  it  does  not  remove  the  source,  at  least  lessen  this  melan- 
choly. 

‘‘  If  possible,  allow  me  to  write  to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  vindicate 
you  from  the  unworthy  suspicions  he  entertains  of  you:  I know 
he  would  believe  me,  and  I should  do  it  without  discovering  your 
retreat.  Farewell,  my  dear  girl;  I recommend  you  constantly  to  the 
care  of  heaven,  and  beg  you  to  J^elieve  you  will  ever  be  dear  and 
interesting  to  the  heart  of  Elizabeth  Deemot.” 

(fatkarine^sP 

Poor  Amanda  wept  over  this  letter.  “ I have  ruined  the  health, 
the  peace  of  Lord  Mortimer,”  she  exclaimed,  and  he  now  execrates 
me  as  the  source  of  his  unhappiness.  Oh!  Lord  Cherbury,  how 
severely  do  I suffer  for  your  crime !”  She  began  to  think  her  virtue 
had  been  too  heroic  in  the  sacrifice  she  had  made;  but  this  was 
a transient  idea,  for  when  she  reflected  on  the  disposition  of  Lord 
Cherbury,  she  was  convinced  the  divulgement  of  his  secret  would 
have  been  followed  by  his  death,  and  great  as  was  her  present  wretch  - 
edness,  she  felt  it  light  compared  to  the  horrors  she  knew  she  would 
experience,  could  she  accuse  herself  of  being  accessary  to  such  ld 
event ; she  now  drank  deeply  of  the  cup  of  misery,  but  conscious  rec- 
titude, in  some  degree,  lessened  its  noxious  bitterness.  She  resolved 
to  caution  Mrs.  Dermot  against  mentioning  her  in  any  manner  to 
Lord  Mortimer.  She  was  well  convinced  he  would  believe  lio  assev- 
eration of  her  innocence,  and  even  if  he  did,  what  end  could  it 
answer?  their  union  was  opposed  by  an  obstacle  not  to  be  surmount- 
ed, and  if  ho  sought  and  discovered  her  retreat,  it  would  only  lead  to 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


435 


new  sorrows,  perhaps  occasion  some  dreadful  catastrophe.  “ We  are 
separated,”  cried  she,  folding  her  hands  together,  “forever  separated 
in  this  world,  hut  in  heaven  we  shall  again  be  re-united.” 

Absorbed  in, the  reflections  and  sorrow  this  letter  gave  rise  to,  she 
remained  in  her  seat  till  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  little  girl  suddenly 
appeared  before  her,  and  said  her  mistress  had  made  tea,  and  was 
wondering  what  kept  her  so  long. 

Amanda  instantly  arose,  and  carefully  putting  up  the  letter  returned 
to  the  house  where  she  found  Mrs.  Macpherson  in  a very  had 
numour.  She  grumbled  exceedingly  at  Amanda’s  staying  out  so 
long,  and  takiug  notice  of  her  eyes  being  red  and  swelled,  said, 
“ indeed  she  believed  she  was  right  in  supposing  she  had  got  a love- 
ietter.” 

Amanda  made  no  reply,  and  the  evening  passed  away  in  peevish- 
ness on  one  side,  and  silence  on  the  other. 

The  charm  which  had  hitherto  rendered  Amanda’s  situation  tolera- 
ble, was  now  dissolved,  as  Mrs.  Dermot  had  said  she  would  write  but 
seldom,  and  scarcely  expected  to  have  anything  interesting  to  relate ; 
she  would  gladly,  therefore,  have  left  Mrs.  Macpherson  immediately, 
but  she  knew  not  where  to  go.  She  resolved,  however,  ere  winter 
was  entirely  set  in,  to  request  Mrs.  Dermot  to  look  out  for  some  other 
place  for  her ; as  she  had  connexions  in  Scotland,  she  thought  she 
might  recommend  her  to  them  as  a governess,  or  a fit  person  to  do 
fine  works  for  a lady. 

She  arose  long  before  her  usual  hour  the  next  morning,  and  wrote 
a letter  expressive  of  her  wishes  and  intentions  to  Mrs.  Dermot, 
which  she  sent  by  a poor  man  who  lived  near  the  house  to  the  post- 
town  rewarding  him  liberally  for  hi  3 trouble. 


436 


OHILDBEN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Who  £nows  the  joys  of  friendship, 

The  trust,  security,  and  mutual  tenderness, 

The  double  joys,  where  each  is  glad  for  both. 

Friendship,  our  only  wealth,  our  last  retreat  and  strength, 

Secure  against  ill  fortune  and  the  world  ? 

Rowa. 

Among  Mrs.  Macplierson’s  pupils  were  two  little  girls,  who  pieased 
And  interested  Amanda  greatly. — Their  father,  for  whom  they  were 
in  mourning,  had  perished  in  a violent  storm,  and  their  mother  had 
pined  in  health  and  spirits  ever  since  the  fatal  accident — ^the  kindness 
with  which  Amanda  treated  them,  they  repaid  with  gratitude  and 
attention ; it  had  a double  effect  upon  their  little  hearts,  from  being 
eontrasted  with  the  sour  austerity  of  Mrs.  Macpherson;  they  told 
Amanda,  in  a whisper,  one  morning,  that  their  mamma  was  coming 
to  see  their  dear,  good  Frances  Donald. 

Accordingly,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Duncan  came ; stie  was 
young  and  pleasing  in  her  appearance ; her  weeds  and  deep  dejection 
rendered,  her  a most  interesting  object.  She  sat  by  Amanda,  and  took 
an  opportunity,  while  Mrs  Macpherson  was  engaged  with  some  of 
the  children,  to  tell  her  in  a low  vqice,  “ she  was  truly  obliged  to  her 
for  the  great  attention  and  kindness  she  showed  her  little  girls,  so 
unlike  their  former  treatment  at  the  school.  The  task  of  instructing 
them  was  hers,”  she  said,  “ till  her  declining  health  and  spirits  ren- 
dered her  no  longer  able  to  bear  it.”  Amanda  assured  her,  “it  was 
a pleasure  to  instruct  minds  so  docile  and  sweet  tempered  as  theirs.” 
Mrs.  Duncan,  as  she  rose  to  depart,  asked  her  and  Mrs.  Macpherson  to 
tea  that  evening,  which  invitation  was  instantly  accepted  by  Mrs. 
Macpherson,  who  was  extremely  fond  of  being  sociable  every  where 
but  in  her  own  house.  Mrs.  Duncan  lived  but  a little  distance,  and 
every  thing  in  and  about  the  house  was  neat  and  comfortable.  She 
had  an  old  neighbour  in  the  parlour,  who  kept  Mrs.  Macpherson  in 
chat,  and  gave  her  an  opportunity  of  conversing  freely  with  Amanda. 
She  marked  the  delicacy  of  her  looks,  she  said,  “ She  believed  she 
was  ill  qualified  to  endure  so  fatiguing  a life  as. her  present.”  She 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


43^ 


mentioned  her  own  lonely  and  melancholy  life,  and  the  happiness  she 
TTOuld  derive  from  having  such  a companion,  and  expressed  her  hopes 
of  often  enjoying  her  society.  Amanda  said  this  would  be  impossible 
without  disobliging  Mrs.  Macpherson,  and  Mrs.  Duncan  on  reflection 
allowed  it  would  be  so.  She  then  inquired  if  she  ever  walked; 
Amanda  replied  she  did,  and  was  asked  where  she  generally  rambled; 
by  the  sea  side  she  replied. 

Mrs.  Duncan  sighed  deeply,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears : “ it  is 
there  I generally  ramble  too,”  said  she.  This  led  to  the  mention  of 
her  late  loss  : “ Mr.  Duncan  had  been  the  kindest,  best  of  husbands.” 
she  said  ; “ the  first  years  of  their  marriage  were  attended  with  diffi- 
culties, which  were  just  removed  when  he  was  lost  on  a party  of 
pleasure  with  several  others.  It  was  some  consolation,  however,” 
continued  Mrs.  Duncan,  that  the  body  was  cast  upon  the  shore, 
and  I had  the  power  of  paying  the  last  rites  of  decency  and  respect  to 
him.” 

In  short,  between  her  and  Amanda  there  appeared  a mutual  sym- 
pathy, which  rendered  them  truly  interesting  to  each  other.  From 
this  period  they  met  generally  every  evening,  and  passed  many  hours 
on  “the  sea-beat  shore,”  talking  and  often  weeping  over  “joys 
departed  never  to  return!”  Mrs.  Duncan  was  too  delicate  to  inquire 
into  Amanda’s  former  situation,  but  was  too  well  convinced  it  had  been 
very  difiercnt  from  her  present  one.  Amanda,  however,  of  her  own 
accord,  told  her  what  she  had  told  Mrs.  Macpherson,  respecting  her- 
self. Mrs.  Duncan  lamented  her  misfortunes,  but  since  she  had  met 
them,  blessed  the  happy  chance  which  conducted  her  near  her  habi- 
tation. 

A month  passed  in  this  manner,  when  one  evening,  at  the  usual 
place  of  meeting,  Mrs.  Duncan  told  her,  “ that  she  believed  she 
should  soon  be  quitting  that  part  of  the  country.”  Amanda  started, 
and  turned  pale  at  this  disagreeable  intelligence.  She  had  received 
no  answer  to  her  letter  from  Mrs.  Dermot,  consequently  dreaded  that 
necessity  would  compel  her  to  remain  in  her  present  situation,  and 
on  Mrs.  Duncan’s  society  she  had  depended  for  rendering  it  bearable 
to  her. 

“ I have  been  invited,  my  dear  girl,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  leaning  on 
her  arm,  as  they  walked  up  and  down  the  beach,  “ to  reside  with  an 
aunt,  who  has  always  been  kind,  and  was  particularly  so  to  mo  in  my 


438 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


distress.  She  lives  about  ten  miles  from  this,  at  an  old  place  called 
Dunreath  Abbey,  of  wbicli  she  is  housekeeper.  Have  you  ever  heard 
of  it?”  Amanda’s  agitation,  at  hearing  her  mother’s  native  habita- 
tion mentioned,  is  not  to  be  described ; her  heart  palpitated ; slie  felt 
her  colour  change,  and  said  Yes,  and  Ho,  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  without 
knowing  what  she  answered ; then  recollecting  herself,  she  replied, 
“ she  had  heard  of  it.” 

“Well,  then,  my  dear,”  continued  Mrs.  Duncan,  “my  aunt,  as  I 
have  already  told  you,  is  housekeeper  there ; she  lives  in  great  gran- 
deur, for  it  is  a magnificent  old  seat,  and  has  the  absolute  command 
of  everything,  as  none  of  the  family  have  resided  at  it  since  the  Earl 
of  Dunreath’s  decease. 

“My  aunt  is  lately  grown  weary  of  the  profound  solitude  in  which 
she  lives,  and  has  asked  me,  in  a letter  which  I received  this  morn- 
ing, to  go  immediately  and  take  up  my  residence  with  her,  promising 
if  I do  she  will  leave  everything  she  is  worth  to  me  and  my  children, 
and  as  her  salary  is  very  good,  I know  she  must  have  saved  a good 
deal ; this  is  a very  tempting  offer,  and  I am  only  withheld  from 
accepting  it  directly,  by  the  fear  of  depriving  my  children  of  the 
advantages  of  education.” 

“Why,”  said  Amanda,  “what  they  learn  at  Mrs.  Macpherson’s 
they  could  easily  learn  anywhere  else.” 

“And  I intended,  when  they  were  a little  older,”  replied  Mrs. 
Duncan,  “ to  go  to  some  one  of  the  neighbouring  towns  v/ith  them  ; 
if  I once  go  to  my  aunt,  I must  entirely  relinquish  such  an  idea,  and 
to  a boarding-shool  I could  not  send  them,  for  I have  not  fortitude  to 
bear  separation  from  them ; wliat  I wish,  therefore,  is  to  procure  a 
person  who  would  be  at  once  a pleasing  companion  for  me,  and  an 
eligible  governess  for  them;  with  such  a person,  the  solitude  of  Dun- 
reath Abbey  would  be  rather  agreeable  than  irksome  to  me.” 

She  looked  earnestly  at  Amanda  as  she  spoke,  and  Amanda’s  hear! 
began  to  throb  with  hope  and  agitation.  “In  short,  my  dear  girl,” 
continued  she,  “you,  of  all  others,  to  be  expicit,  are  the  person  I 
would  choose  to  bring  along  with  me;  your  sweet  society  would 
alleviate  my  sorrows,  and  your  elegant  accomplishments  give  to  ray 
children  all  the  advantages  I desire  them  to  possess.” 

“ I am  not  only  flattered,  but  happy  by  your  prepossession  in  my 
favour,”  replied  Amanda. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


439 


‘‘I  am  pleased  we  agree  in  point  of  inclination,”  said  !Mrs.  Duncan, 
^but  I must  now  inform  you  that  my  aunt  has  always  been  averse  to 
admit  any  stranger  to  the  Abbey : why,  I know  not,  except  it  is  by 
the  commands  of  the  family,  and  she  tells  me  in  her  letter,  that  if  I 
accept  her  invitation,  I must  not,  on  any  account,  let  it  be  known 
where  I am  removing  to:  I dare  not,  therefore,  bring  you  with  me 
without  her  permission ; but  I shall  write  immediately,  and  request 
it.  In  the  course  of  a day  or  two,  I may  expect  an  answer ; in  the 
mean  time,  give  Mrs.  Macpherson  no  intimation  of  our  present 
intentions,  lest  they  should  be  defeated.  Amanda  promised  she 
would  not,  and  they  separated. 

She  was  now  in  a state  of  the  greatest  agitation,  at  the  probability 
there  w’as  that  she  might  visit  the  seat  of  her  ancestors.  She  dreaded 
a disappointment,  and  felt  that  if  she  went  there  as  the  companion  of 
Mrs.  Duncan,  she  should  be  better  situated  than,  a few  hours  before, 
she  had  ever  expected  to  be  again.  Two  evenings  after  her  conver- 
sation with  Mrs.  Duncan,  on  going  to  the  beach  to  meet  her,  she  saw 
her  approaching  with  an  open  latter  in  her  hand,  and  a smile  on  her 
face,  which  informed  her  its  contents  were  pleasing.  They  were  so, 
indeed,  as  they  gave  permission  to  have  Amanda  brought  to  the 
Abbey,  provided  she  promised  inviolable  secrecy  as  to  where  she  was 
going.  This  Amanda  cheerfully  did,  and  Mrs.  Duncan  said,  she  had 
some  affairs  to  settle,  which  would  prevent  their  departure  for  a few 
days : at  whatever  time  she  appointed,  her  aunt  was  to  send  a car- 
riage for  them,  and  it  was  agreed  that  Mrs.  Macpherson  should  be 
informed  Mrs.  Duncan  was  leaving  that  part  of  the  country,  and  had 
engaged  Amanda  as  a governess  to  her  children. 

Mrs.  Duncan  then  mentioned  her  own  terms.  Amanda  assured 
her  an  idea  of  them  had  never  entered  her  thoughts.  Mrs.  Duncan 
said  she  was  sure  of  that,  but  at  the  same  time  thought  between  the 
most  intimate  friends  exactness  should  be  preserved.  Every  thing 
being  settled  to  their  mutual  satisfaction  they  separated,  and  the 
following  day,  after  school  broke  up  Amanda  informed  Mrs.  Mac- 
pherson of  her  intended  departure.  The  old  dame  was  thunder- 
struck, and  for  some  time  unable  to  speak,  but  when  she  recovered 
tlie  use  of  her  tongue,  expressed  the  utmost  rage  and  indignation 
against  Amanda,  Mrs,  Duncan,  and  the  Prioress;  against  tlie  first  for 
thinking  of  leaving  her,  the  second  for  inveigling  her  away,  and  the 


440 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

tlilrd  for  recommending  a person  wlio  could  serve  her  in  such  a 
manner.  When  she  stopped,  exhausted  hy  her  violence,  Amanda 
took  the  opportunity  of  assuring  her  that  she  had  no  reason  to  con- 
demn any  of  them,  as  for  her  part,  previous  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s  offer, 
she  intended  to  leave  her,  being  unable  to  bear  a life  of  such  fatigue*; 
that,  as  her  removal  would  not  be  immediate,  Mrs.  Macpherson  could 
suffer  no  inconvenience  by  it,  there  being  time  enough  to  look  out  for 
another  person  ere  it  took  place  : but  the  truth  now  broke  from  Mrs, 
Macpherson,  angry  as  she  was  with  Amanda,  she  could  not  help  con- 
fessing, that  she  never  again  expected  to  meet  with  a person  so  well 
qualified  to  please  her,  and  a torrent  of  bitter  reproaches  again  burst 
forth  for  her  quitting  her. 

Amanda  resented  them  not,  but  did  all  in  her  power  to  mohify 
her;  as  the  most  effectual  method  of  doing  so,  she  declared  she 
meant  to  take  no  recompense  for  the  time  she  had  been  with  her, 
and  added,  if  she  had  her  permission,  she  would  write  that  very 
evening  to  Mrs.  Dermot  about  a woman  she  had  seen  at  the  convent, 
whom  she  thought  well  qualified  to  be  an  assistant  in  her  school. 
This  was  the  woman  who  had  been  engaged  to  attend  her  to  England. 
Mrs.  Macpherson  at  last  consented  she  should  write  for  her,  as  her 
wrath  had  gradually  subsided  from  the  moment  Amanda  declared  she 
would  take  no  payment.  Amanda  accordingly  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dermot 
and  informed  her  of  the  agreeable  change  there  was  about  taking 
place  in  her  situation : also  of  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  displeasure,  and 
her  own  wish  that  a person  might  immediately  be  procured  to  fill  tlie 
place  she  was  resigning.  She  mentioned  the  woman  already  spoken 
of  as  a proper  person,  but  requested,  if  she  consented  to  come,  she 
mig]  i not  be  allowed  to  do  so  till  she  had  left  Mrs.  Macpherson’s,  else 
who  she  really  was  would  be  betrayed.  She  now  thought  little  of 
the  tedious  and  disagreeable  days  she  spent,  as  the  eagerness  with 
which  she  saw  Mrs.  Duncan  preparing  for  their  departure,  promised 
so  speedily  to  change  them ; she  received  an  answer  from  Ireland 
even  sooner  than  she  expected.  Mrs.  Dermot  congratulated  her  on 
having  met  so  amiable  a friend  as  Mrs.  Duncan;  said  the  woman 
accepted  the  offer  made  in  Mrs.  Macpherson’s  name ; but  should  not 
depart  till  she  had  written  for  that  purpose,  and  concluded  her  letter 
by  Baying,  there  was  no  intelligence  yet  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Mn% 
Macpherson  was  pleased  to  find  she  should  not  be  long  v^ntliout  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  441 

companion,  and  two  days  after  the  receipt  of  the  letter,  Mrs.  Dunsan 
Hold  Amanda  their  journey  was  fixed  for  the  ensuing  day,  and  begged 
Amanda  to  sleep  at  her  house  that  night,  to  w^hich  she  gladly  con- 
sented ; accordingly  after  dinner  she  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Macpherson, 
who  gcnmbled  out  a farewell,  and  a hope  that  she  might  not  have 
reason  to  repent  quitting  her,  for  the  old  lady  was  so  incensed  to  have 
the  place  Mrs.  Duncan  was  going  to,  concealed  from  her,  that  all  her 
ill  humour  had  returned.  Amanda  with  a pleasure  she  could  scarcely 
conceal,  quitted  her  inhospitable  mansion,  and  attended  by  a man 
who  carried  her  trunk,  soon  found  herself  at  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  where 
she  was  received  with  every  demonstration  of  joy.  The  evening 
passed  sociably  away ; they  arose  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  just 
breakfasted  when  the  expected  carriage  from  Dunreath  Abbey  arrived ; 
it  was  a heavy,  old-fashioned  chaise,  on  whose  faded  panels  the  arms 
of  the  Dunreath  family  were  still  visible.  Mrs.  Duncan’s  luggage 
had  been  sent  off  the  preceding  day,  so  that  there  was  nothing  now 
to  delay  them.  Mrs.  Duncan  made  Amanda  and  the  children  go  into 
the  chaise  before  her,  but  detained  by  an  emotion  of  the  most  painful 
nature,  she  lingered  some  time  upon  the  threshold  ; she  could  not 
indeed  depart  from  the  habitation,  where  she  had  past  so  many  happy 
days  with  the  man  of  her  tenderest  affections,  without  a flood  of 
tea^s,  which  spoke  the  bitterness  of  her  feelings.  Amanda  knew  too 
well  the  nature  of  those  feelings  to  attempt  restraining  them ; but  the 
little  children,  impatient  to  begin  their  journey,  called  out  to  their 
mamma  to  come  into  the  carriage.  She  started  when  they  spoke, 
but  instantly  complied  with  their  desire : and  when  they  expressed 
their  grief  at  seeing  her  cheeks  wet  with  tears,  kissed  them  both,  and 
said  she  would  soon  recover  her  spirits ; she  accordingly  exerted  her- 
self for  that  purpose,  and  was  soon  in  a condition  to  converse  with 
Amanda.  The  day  was  fine  and  serene : they  travelled  leisurely,  for 
the  horses  had  long  outlived  their  mettlesome  days,  and  gave  them  an 
opportunity  of  attentively  viewing  the  prospects  on  each  side,  which 
were  various,  romantic,  and  beautiful ; the  novelty  of  the  scenes,  the 
disagreeable  place  she  had  left,  and  the  idea  of  the  place  she  was 
going  to,  helped  a little  to  enliven  the  pensive  soul  of  Amanda,  and 
she  enjoyed  a greater  degree  of  tranquillity  than  she  had  before 
experienced  since  her  separation  from  Lord  Mortimer. 


19* 


442 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  IBBET. 


OHAPTEE  XLiy. 

My  lis^.entng  pow’rs 

Were  awed,  and  every  thought  in  silence  hung. 

And  wond’ring  expectation. 

Akenside 

“ My  dear,  dear  Fanny,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  addressing  our  heroine 
by  her  borrowed  name,  “if  at  all  inclined  to  superstition,  you  are 
now  going  to  a place  which  will  call  it  forth.  Dunreath  Abbey  is 
Gothic  and  gloomy  in  the  extreme,  and  recalls  to  one’s  mind  all  the 
stories  they  evei  heard  of  haunted  houses  and  apparitions,  the  deser- 
tion of  the  native  inhabitants  has  hastened  the  depredations  of  time, 
■whose  ravages  are  unrepaired,  except  in  the  part  immediately  occupied 
by  the  domestics ; yet  what  is  the  change  of  the  building  compared 
to  the  revolution  which  took  place  in  the  fortunes  of  her  who  once 
beheld  a prospect  of  being  its  mistress;  the  earl  of  Dunreath’s  eldest 
daughter,  as  I have  often  heard  from  many,  was  a celebrated  beauty, 
and  as  good  as  she  was  handsome  ; but  a malignant  step-mother 
thwarted  her  happiness,  and  forced  her  to  take  shelter  in  the  arms 
of  a man,  who  had  every  thing  but  fortune  to  recommend  him,  but 
in  wanting  that,  he  wanted  everything  to  please  her  family. 

“ After  some  years  of  distress  she  found  means  to  soften  the  heart 
of  her  fathe^;  but  here  the  invidious  step-mother  again  interfered, 
and  prevented  her  experiencing  any  good  elfects  from  his  returning 
tenderness,  and  it  was  rumored,  by  a deep  and  iniquitous  scheme, 
deprived  her  of  her  birth-right.  Like  other  rumours,  however,  it 
gradually  died  away,  perhaps  from  Lady  Malvina  and  her  husband 
never  hearing  of  it,  and  none  but  them  had  a right  to  inquire  into  its 
truth ; but  if  such  a scheme  was  really  contrived,  woe  be  to  its  fabri- 
cator ; the  pride  and  pomp  of  wealth  can  never  alleviate  or  recom- 
pense the  stings  of  conscience ; much  rather,”  continued  Mrs.  Duncan, 
laying  her  hands  on  her  children’s  heads  as  they  sat  at.  her  feet, 
“ much  rather  would  I have  my  babes  wander  from  door  to  door,  to 
beg  tlie  dole  of  charity,  than  live  upon  the  birth-right  of  the  orphan. 

“ If  Lady  Dunreath  in  reality  committed  the  crime  she  was  accused 
of,  she  met  in  some  degree  a punislimeut  for  it.  Soon  after  Uio 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDET. 


443 


Earl’s  deaiii  &lie  betrayed  a partiality  for  a man  every  way  inferior 
to  tier,  wtich  partiality,  people  have  not  scrupled  to  say,  commenced, 
and  was  indulged  to  a criminal  degree  during  the  life-time  of  her 
husband.  She  would  have  married  him  had  not  her  daughter,  the 
Marchioness  of  Hosline,  interfered.  Proud  and  ambitious,  her  rage 
at  the  prospect  of  such  an  alliance  knew  no  bounds,  and  seconded  by 
the  marquis,  whose  disposition  was  congenial  to  her  own,  they  got 
the  unfortunate  mother  into  their  power,  and  hurried  her  off  to  a 
convent  in  France.  I know  not  whether  she  is  yet  living ; indeed  I 
believe  there  are  few  either  know  or  care,  she  w^as  so  much  disliked 
for  her  haughty  disposition.  I have  sometimes  asked  my  aunt  about 
her,  but  she  would  never  gratify  my  curiosity.  She  has  been  brought 
up  in  the  family,  and  no  doubt  thinks  herself  bound  to  conceal 
whatever  they  choose. 

“ She  lives  in  ease  and  plenty,  and  is  absolute  mistress  of  the  few 
domestics  that  I'eside  in  the  Abbey;  but  of  those  domestics  I 
caution  you  in  time,  or  they  will  be  apt  to  fill  your  head  with  fright- 
ful stories  of  the  Abbey,  which  sometimes,  if  one’s  spirits  are  weak, 
in  spite  of  reason,  will  make  an  impression  on  the  mind.  They  pre- 
tend that  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s  first  wife  haunts  the  Abbey,  venting 
the  most  piteous  moans,  which  they  ascribe  to  grief  for  the  unfortu- 
nate fate  of  her  daughter,  and  that  daughter’s  children  being  deprived 
of  their  rightful  patrimony. 

I honestly  confess,  when  at  the  Abbey  a few  years  ago,  during 
some  distresses  of  my  husband’s,  I heard  strange  noises  one  evening 
at  twilight,  as  I Valked  in  a gallery.  I told  my  aunt  of  them,  and  she 
was  quite  angry  at  the  involuntary  terror  I expressed,  and  said  it  was 
nothing  but  the  wind  whistling  through  some  adjoining  galleries 
which  I heard.  But  this  my  dear  Fanny,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  on 
account  of  her  children  had  continued  the  latter  part  of  her  discourse, 
in  a low  voice,  is  all  between  ourselves ; for  my  aunt  declared  sha 
would  never  pardon  my  mentioning  my  ridiculous  fears,  or  the  yet 
more  ridiculous  fears  of  the  servants,  to  any  human  being.” 

Amanda  listened  in  silence  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s  discourse,  fearful  that 
if  she  spoke  the  should  betray  the  emotions  it  excited. 

They  at  last  entered  between  the  mountains  that  enclosed  the 
valley  on  which  the  Abbey  stood.  The  scene  was  solemn  and  solitary. 
Every  prospect,  except  one  of  the  sea,  seen  through  an  aperture  in  ono 


444 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  the  mountains,  was  excluded.  Some  of  these  mountains  were  harOj 
craggy  and  projecting;  others  were  skirted  with  trees,  robed  with 
vivid  green,  and  crowned  with  white  and  yellow  furze : some  were 
all  a wood  of  intermingled  shades,  and  others  covered  with  long  and 
purple  heath ; various  streams  flowed  from  them  into  the  valley,  some 
stole  gently  down  their  sides  in  silver  rills,  giving  beauty  and  vigour 
w^herever  they  meandered;  others  tumbled  from  fragment  to  frag- 
ment, with  a noise  not  undelightful  to  the  ear,  and  formed  for  them- 
selves a deep  bed  in  the' valley,  over  which  trees,  that  appeared  coeval 
with  the  building,  bent  their  old  and  leafy  heads. 

At  the  foot  of  what  to  the  rest  was  called  a gently  swelling  hill,  lay 
the  remains  of  the  extensive  gardens  which  had  once  given  the  luxu- 
ries of  the  vegetable  world  to  the  banquets  of  the  Abbey : b it  the 
buildings  which  had  nursed  those  luxuries  were  all  gone  to  decay, 
and  the  gay  plantations  were  overrun  with  the  progeny  of  nogiect  and 
sloth. 

The  Abbey  was  one  of  the  most  venerable  -looking  bufl dings 
Amanda  had  ever  beheld;  but  it  was  in  melancholy  grand Bur  she 
now  saw  it.  In  the  wane  of  its  days,  when  its  glory  was  p'^ssed 
aAvay,  and  the  whole  pile  proclaimed  desertion  and  decay,  she  saw  it, 
when  to  use  the  beautiful  language  of  Hutchinson,  its  pride  was  brc  ight 
low,  when  its  magnificence  was  sinking  in  the  dust,  when  tribulation 
had  taken  the  seat  of  hospitality,  and  solitude  reigned,  >/here  once 
the  jocund  guest  had  laughed  over  the  sparkling  bowl,  whilst  the 
owls  sung  nightly  their  strains  of  melancholy  to  the  moonshine  that 
slept  upon  its  mouldering  battlements. 

The  heart  of  Amanda  was  full  of  the  fond  idea  of  her  parents,  and 
the  sigh  of  tender  remembrance  stole  from  it.  ‘‘ How  little  room,-’ 
thought  she,  “ should  there  be  in  the  human  heart  for  the  worldly 
pride  which  so  often  dilates  it,  liable  as  all  things  are  to  chang<^  j-he 
distress  in  which  the  descendants  of  noble  families  are  so  often  seen, 
the  decline  of  such  families  themselves  should  check  that  arrogant  p-^e- 
sumption  with  which  so  many  look  forward  to  having  their  greatness 
and  prosperity  perpetuated  through  every  branch  of  their  posterity. 

The  proud  possessors  of  this  Abbey,  surrounded  with  affluence,  and 
living  in  its  full  enjoyment,  never  perhaps  admitted  the  idea  as  at  all 
probable,  that  one  of  their  descendants  should  ever  approach  the  scut 
of  her  ancestors  without  that  pomp  and  elegance  which  heretofore 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


445 


distinguished  its  daughters.  Alas ! one  now  approaches  it  neither  to 
display  or  contemplate  the  pageantry  of  wealth,  but  meek  and  lowly; 
not  to  receive  the  smile  of  love,  or  the  embrace  of  relatives,  but 
afflicted  and  unknown,  glad  to  find  a shelter,  and  procure  the  bread 
of  dependence  beneath  its  decaying  roof. 

Mrs.  Duncan  happily  marked  not  Amanda’s  emotion  as  she  gazed 
upon  the  Abbey  she  was  busily  employed  in  answering  her  children’s 
questions,  who  wanted  to  know  whether  she  thought  they  would  be 
able  >0  climb  up  the  "great  big  hill  they  saw. 

The  carriage  at  last  stopped  before  the  Abbey.  Mrs.  Bruce  was 
already  at  the  door  to  receive  them : she  was  a smart  little  old  woman, 
and  welcomed  her  niece  and  the  children  with  an  appearance  of  the 
greatest  pleasure.  On  Amanda’s  being  presented  to  her,  she  gazed 
steadfastly  in  her  face  a few  minutes,  and  then  exclaimed,  “Well, 
this  is  very  strange — ^though  I know  I never  could  have  seen  this 
young  lady  before,  her  face  is  quite  familiar  to  me.” 

The  hall  into  which  they  entered  was  large  and  gloomy,  paved 
with  black  marble,  and  supported  by  pillars,  through  which  the 
arched  doors  that  led  to  various  apartments  were  seen ; rude  imple- 
ments, such  as  the  Caledonians  had  formerly  used  in  war  and  hunt-  / 
ing,  were  ranged  along  the  walls.  Mrs.  Bruce  conducted  them  into  ) 
a spacious  parlour,  terminated  by  an  elegant  saloon ; this  she  told 
them  had  once  been  the  banqueting-room : the  furniture,  though 
**  faded^  was  still  magnificent,  and  tlie  windows,  though  still  in  the 
Gothic  style,  from  being  enlarged  considerably  beyond  their  original 
dimensions,  alforded  a most  delightful  view  of  the  domain. 

“ Do  you  know,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  “ this  apartment,  though  one 
of  the  pleasantest  in  the  Abbey  in  point  of  situation,  always  makes 
me  melancholy : the  moment  I enter  it,  I think  of  the  entertainments 
once  given  in  it,  and  then  its  present  vacancy  and  stillness  almost 
instantly  reminds  me,  that  those  who  partook  of  these  entertainments 
are  now  almost  all  humbled  with  the  dust!” — Her  aunt  laughed  and 
said,  “ she  was  very  romantic.” 

The  solemnity  of  the  Abbey  was  well  calculated  to  heighten  the 
awe  which  stole  upon  the  spirit  of  Amanda  from  her  first  view  of  it ; 
no  noise  was  heard  throughout,  except  the  hoarse  creaking  of  the 
massy  doors,  as  the  servants  passed  from  one  room  to  another 
adjusting  Mrs.  Duncan’s  things,  and  preparing  the  dinner.  Mrei. 


446 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Duncan  was  drawn  into  a corner  of  the  room  by  her  aunt,  to  converse 
in  a low  voice,  about  family  affairs,  and  tbe  children  were  rambling 
about  tbe  ball,  wondering  and  inquiring  about  every  thing  they  saw. 

Thus  left  to  herself,  a soft  languor  gradually  stole  over  tbe  mind  of 
Amanda,  which  was  almost  exhausted  from  the  emotions  it  had 
experienced.  The  murmuring  sound  of  waterfalls  and  the  buzzing  of 
the  flies,  that  basked  in  the  sunny  rays  which  darted  through  the 
casements,  lulled  her  into  a kind  of  pensive  tranquillity. 

‘‘  Am  I really,”  she  asked  herself,  “ in  the  seat  of  my  ancestors  j 
Am  I really  in  the  habitation  where  my  mother  was  born,  where  her 
irrevocable  vows  were  plighted  to  my  father  ? I am — and,  oh!  within 
it  may  I at  last  find  an  assylum  from  the  vices  and  dangers  of  the 
world;  within  it  may  my  sorrowing  spirit  lose  its  agitatiou,  and 
subdue,  if  not  its  affections,  at  least  its  murmurs,  at  the  disappoint- 
ment of  those  affections.” 

The  appearance  of  dinner  interrupted  her.  She  made  exertions  to 
overcome  any  appearance  of  dejection,  and  the  conversation,  if  not 
lively,  was  at  least  cheerful.  After  dinner  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  had 
been  informed  by  Amanda  of  her  predilection  for  old  buildings,  asked 
her  aunt’s  permission  to  shew  her  the  Abbey.  Mrs.  Bruce  immediate- 
ly  arose,  and  said  she  would  have  that  pleasure  herself.  She 
accordingly  led  the  way ; many  of  the  apartments  yet  displayed  the 
sumptuous  taste  of  those  who  had  furnished  them.  “It  is  astonishing 
to  me,”  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  “ that  so  magnificent  a pile  as  this  should 
be  abandoned,  as  I may  say,  by  its  possessors.” 

“ The  Marquis  of  Eosline’s  Castle  is  a more  modern  structure  than 
this,”  said  Mrs.  Bruce,  “ and  preferred  by  them  on  that  account.” 

“ So  like  the  family  monument,”  rejoined  Mrs.  Duncan,  “they  are 
merely  satisfied  with  permitting  this  to  stand,  as  it  may  help  to 
transmit  the  marchioness’s  name  to  posterity.” 

“ How  far  does  the  marquis  live  from  this  ?”  asked  Amanda. 

“About  twelve  miles,”  replied  Mrs.  Bruce,  who  did  not  appear 
pleased  with  her  niece’s  conversation,  and  led  the  way  to  a long 
gallery,  ornamented  with  portraits  of  the  family.  This  gallery 
Amanda  knew  well  by  description ; this  was  the  gallery  in  which  her 
father  had  stopped  to  contemplate  the  picture  of  her  mother,  and  her 
heart  throbbed  with  impatience  and  anxiety  to  see  that  picture. 

Mrs.  Bruce,  as  she  went  before,  told  her  the  names  of  the  different 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


44? 


portraits.  Slie  suddenly  stopped  before  one : — “ that,”  cried  she,  “ is 
the  Marchioness  of  Kosline’s,  drawn  for  her  when  Lady  Augusta 
Dunreath.”  Amanda  cast  her  eyes  upon  it,  and  perceived  in  the 
countenance  the  same  haughtiness  as  still  distinguished  the  mar- 
chioness. She  looked  at  the  next  panel,  and  found  it  empty. 

“ The  picture  of  Lady  Malvina  Dunreath  hung  there,”  said  Mrs. 
Bruce ; but  after  her  unfortunate  marriage  it  was  taken  down.” 

‘‘  And  destroyed,”  exclaimed  Amanda,  mournfully. 

‘‘^NTo,  but  it  was  thrown  into  the  old  Chapel,  where  with  the  rest 
of  the  lumber  (the  soul  of  Amanda  was  struck  at  these  words) — it 
has  been,  locked  up  for  years.” 

“ And  is  it  impossible  to  see  it?”  asked  Amanda. 

‘‘Impossible  indeed,”  replied  Mrs.  Bruce,  “the  Chapel  and  the 
whole  eastern  part  of  the  Abbey,  have  long  been  in  a ruinous  situa- 
tion, on  which  account  it  has  been  locked  up.” 

“ This  is  the  gallery,”  whispered  Mrs.  Duncan,  “ in  which  I heard 
the  strange  noises ; but  not  a word  of  them  to  my  aunt.” 

Amanda  could  scarcely  conceal  the  disappointment  she  felt  at 
finding  she  could  not  see  her  mother’s  picture.  She  would  have 
entreated  the  Chapel  might  be  opened  for  that  purpose,  had  not  she 
feared  exciting  suspicions  by  doing  so. 

They  returned  from  the  gallery  to  the  parlour,  and  in  the  course  of 
conversation  Amanda  heard  many  interesting  anecdotes  of  her  ances- 
tors from  Mrs.  Bruce.  Her  mother  was  also  mentioned,  and  Mrs. 
Bruce,  by  dwelling  on  her  worth,  made  amends  in  some  degree,  to 
Amanda,  for  having  called  her  picture  lumber.  She  retired  to  her 
chamber  with  her  mind  softened  and  elevated  by  hearing  of  her 
mother’s  virtues.  She  called  upon  her,  upon  her  father’s  spirit,  upon 
them  whose  kindred  souls  were  re-united  in  heaven,  to  bless  their 
child,  to  strengthen,  to  support  her  in  the  thorny  patli  marked  out 
for  her  to  take ; nor  to  cease  their  tutelary  care  till  she  was  joined  tc 
them  by  Providence. 


US 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


CHAPTER  XLY. 

Such  on  the  gi’ound  the  fading  rose  we  see, 

By  some  rude  blast  torn  from  the  parent  tree  ; 

The  daffodil,  so  leans  his  languid  head, 

Newly  mown  down  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Blee. 

Experience  convinced  Amanda  that  the  change  in  her  situation 
was,  if  possible,  more  pleasing  than  she  expected  it  would  he.  Mrs. 
Duncan  was  the  kindest  and  most  attentive  of  friends — ^Mrs.  Bruce 
was  civil  and  obliging,  and  her  little  pupils  were  docile  and  affection- 
ate. Could  she  have  avoided  retrospection  she  would  have  been 
happy ; hut  the  remembrance  of  past  events  was  too  deeply  impressed 
upon  her  mind  to  he  erased ; it  mingled  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
in  the  avocations  of  the  day,  and  in  the  meditations  of  her  lonely 
hours,  forcing  from  her  heart  the  sighs  of  regret  and  tenderness ; her 
mornings  were  devoted  to  her  pupils,  and  in  the  evenings  she  some- 
times walked  with  Mrs.  Duncan,  sometimes  read  aloud  whilst  she 
and  her  aunt  were  working;  hut  whenever  they  were  engaged  in 
chatting  about  family  affairs,  or  at  a game  of  piquet  (which  was  often 
the  case,  as  Mrs.  Bruce  neither  loved  walking  or  working)  she  al  ?rays 
took  that  opportunity  of  retiring  from  the  room,  and  either  rambled 
through  the  dark  and  intricate  windings  of  the  Abbey,  or  about  the 
grounds  contiguous  to  it ; she  sighed  whenever  she  passed  the  Chapel 
which  contained  the  picture  of  her  mother ; it  was  in  a ruinous  con- 
dition ; but  a thick  foliage  of  ivy  partly  hid,  while  it  proclaimed  its 
decay ; the  windows  were  broken  in  many  places,  hut  all  too  high  to 
admit  the  possibility  of  her  gaining  admittance  through  them,  and 
the  door  was  strongly  secured  by  massy  bars  of  iron,  as  was  every 
door  which  had  a communication  with  the  eastern  part  of  tlie  Abbey 
A fortnight  passed  away  at  the  Abbey  without  any  thing  happening 
to  disturb  the  tranquillity  which  reigned  in  it.  Ho  one  approached 
it  except  a few  of  the  wandering  children  of  poverty,  and  its  inhabit- 
ants seemed  perfectly  content  with  their  seclusion  from  the  world. 
Amanda,  by  Mrs.  Duncan’s  desire,  had  told  Mrs.  Dermot  to  direct 
her  letters  to  a town  about  five  miles  from  the  Abbey ; thither  a mafi 
went  every  day  hut  constantly  returned  without  one  for  hor. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


449 


“ she  asked  herself,  “ this  anxiety  for  a letter,  this  disai> « 

pointment  for  not  receiving  one,  when  I neither  expect  to  hear  any 
thing  interesting  or  agreeable  ? Mrs.  Dermot  has  already  said  she 
tad  no  means  of  hearing  about  Lord  Mortimer,  and  if  she  had,  why 
should  I desire  such  intelligence,  torn  as  I am  from  him  forever?” 

At  the  expiration  of  another  week  an  incident  happened,  which 
again  destroyed  the  composure  of  our  heroine.  Mrs.  Bruce  one  mor- 
ning hastily  entered  the  room,  where  she  and  Mrs.  Duncan  were  sit- 
ting with  the  little  girls,  and  begged  they  would  not  stir  from  it  till 
she  told  them  to  do  so,  as  the  Marquis  of  Kosline’s  steward  was  below 
stairs,  and  if  he  knew  of  their  residence  at  the  Abbey,  she  was  con- 
fident he  would  reveal  it  to  his  lord,  which  she  had  no  doubt  would 
occasion  her  own  dismission  from  it.  The  ladies  assured  her  they 
would  not  leave  the  apartment,  and  she  retired,  leaving  them  aston- 
ished at  the  agitation  she  betrayed. 

In  about  two  hours  she  returned,  and  said  she  came  to  release  them 
from  confinement,  as  the  steward  had  departed.  “ He  has  brought 
unexpected  intelligence,”  said  she  ; the  marquis  and  his  family  are 
coming  down  to  the  castle;  the  season  is  so  far  advanced,  I did  not 
suppose  they  would  visit  it  till  next  summer : I must  therefore,” 
continued  she,  addressing  her  niece,  “ send  to  the  neighbouring  town 
to  procure  lodgings  for  you  till  the  family  leave  the  country,  as  no 
doubt  some  of  them  will  come  to  the  Abbey,  and  to  find  you  in  it 
would,  I can  assure  you,  be  attended  with  unpleasant  consequences 
to  me.” 

Mrs.  Duncan  begged  she  would  not  sufier  the  least  uneasiness  on 
her  account,  and  proposed  that  very  day  leaving  the  Abbey. 

‘‘Ho,”  Mrs.  Bruce  replied,  “there  was  no  necessity  for  quitting  it 
for  a few  days  longer ; the  family,”  continued  she,  “ are  coming  down 
upon  a joyful  occasion,  to  celebrate  the  nuptials  of  the  marquis’s 
daughter.  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland.” 

“Lady  Euphrasia’s  nuptials!”  exclaimed  Amanda,  in  an  agitated 
voice,  and  forgetting  her  own  situation,  “ to  whom  is  she  going  to  be 
married  ?” 

“ To  Lord  Mortimer,”  Mrs.  Bruce  replied,  “ the  Earl  of  Cherbury’s 
only  ^n,  a very  fine  young  man.  I am  told  the  affair  has  been  long 
talked  of ; but—”  here  she  was  interrupted  by  a deep  sigh,  or  rather 
groan  from  the  unfortunate  Amanda,  who  at  the  same  moment  fell 


450 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


back  on  her  chair,  pale,  and  without  motion.  Mrs.  Duncan  screamed, 
and  flew  to  her  assistance;  Mrs.  Bruce,  equally  frightened,  though  less 
aflected,  ran  for  restoratives,  and  the  children  clasped  her  knees  and 
wept.  From  her  pensive  look  and  manner  Mrs.  Duncan  suspected, 
from  their  first  acquaintance,  that  her  heart  had  experienced  a disap- 
pointment of  the  tenderest  nature.  Her  little  girls  too  had  told  her 
that  they  had  seen  Miss  Donald  crying  over  a picture.  Her  suspi- 
cions concerning  such  a disappointment  were  now  confirmed  by  the 
sudden  emotion  and  illness  of  Amanda ; but  she  had  all  the  delicacy 
which  belongs  to  true  sensibility,  and  determined  never  to  let  Aman- 
da know  she  conjectured  the  source  of  her  sorrows,  certain  as  she  was 
that  they  had  never  originated  from  any  misconduct. 

Mrs.  Bruce’s  drops  restored  Amanda’s  senses ; but  she  felt  weak  and 
trembling,  and  begged  she  might  be  supported  to  her  room  to  lie 
down  on  the  bed.  Mrs.  Bruce  and  Mrs.  Duncan  accordingly  led  her 
to  it. — The  former  almost  immediately  retired,  and  the  tears  of 
Amanda  now  burst  forth.  She  wept  a long  time  without  intermis- 
sion, and  as  soon  as  her  sobs  would  permit  her  to  speak,  begged  Mrs. 
Duncan  to  leave  her  to  herself.  Mrs.  Duncan  knew  too  well  the 
luxury  of  secret  grief  to  deny  her  the  enjoyment  of  so  melancholy 
a feast,  and  directly  withdrew. 

The  wretched  Amanda  then  asked  herself,  if  she  had  not  known 
before,  that  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  Lord  Cherbury,  would  lead  to 
the  event  she  now  regretted?  It  was  true  she  did  know  it;  but 
whenever  an  idea  of  its  taking  place  occurred,  she  had  so  sedulously 
driven  it  from  her  mind,  that  she  at  last  almost  ceased  to  thick  about 
it ; was  he  to  be  united  to  any  other  woman  but  Lady  Euphrasia,  she 
thought  she  would  not  be  so  wretched.  Oh  Mortimer ! beloved  of 
my  soul,”  she  cried,  “ were  you  going  to  be  united  to  a woman  sensi- 
ble of  your  worth,  and  worthy  your  noble  heart,  in  the  knowledge  of 
your  happiness  my  misery  would  be  lessened ; but  w^hat  an  union  of 
misery  must  minds  so  uncongenial  as  yours  and  Lady  Euphrasia’s 
form  I Alas ! am  I not  wretched  enough  in  contemplating  my  own 
prospect  of  unhappiness,  but  that  yours  also  must  be  obtj-uded  on 
me?” 

‘‘  Yet,  perhaps,”  she  continued,  “ the  evils  I dread  on  Lord  Morti- 
mer’s account  may  be  averted.  Oh ! that  they  may,”  said  she  with 
fervour  and  raising  her  hands  and  eyes.  ‘‘  Soften,  gracioun  Heaven 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


461 


tjofto  the  flinty  nature  of  Lady  Euphrasia : 0?i ! render  her  sensible 
uf  the  blessings  you  bestow,  in  giving  her  Lord  Mortimer^  and  render 
her  not  only  capable  of  inspiring,  but  of  feeling  tenderness.  May  she 
prove  to  him  the  tender  friend,  the  faithful,  the  affectionate  compan- 
ion, the  unfortunate  Amanda  would  have  been. — Oh ! may  she  build 
be''  happiness  on  his,  and  may  his  be  great  as  his  virtues,  extensive  as 
his  charities,  and  may  the  knowledge  of  it  soothe  my  afilicted 
heart.” 

Rsr  spirits  were  a little  elevated  by  the  fervency  of  her  language ; 
but  it  was  a transient  elevation ; the  flush  it  spread  over  her  cheeks 
soon’  died  away,  and  her  tears  again  began  to  flow. 

Alas !”  she  cried,  “in  a few  days,  it  will  be  criminal  to  think  of 
Lord  Mortimer  as  I have  hitherto  done,  and  I shall  blush,”  continued 
she  gazing  at  his  picture,  “ to  contemplate  this  dear  shadow,  when  I 
reflect  its  original  is  the  husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia.” 

Tht  .dinner-bell  now  sounded  through  the  Abbey,  and  almost  at  the 
same  time  she  heard  a tap  at  her  door.  She  started  and  reflected  for 
the  first  time,  that  her  deep  dejection  would  naturally  excite  suspi- 
cion as  to  its  source,  if  longer  indulged.  Shocked  at  the  idea  of 
incurring  them,  she  hastily  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  opening  the 
dooi,  found  her  friend  Mrs.  Duncan  at  it,  who  begged  she  would 
come  down  to  dinner. — Amanda  did  not  refuse,  but  was  obliged  to 
use  the  supportii^g  arm  of  her  friend  to  reach  the  parlour.  She  could 
not  eat ; with  difliculty  could  she  restrain  her  tears,  or  answer  the 
inquiries  Mrs-  Bruce  made  after  what  she  supposed  a mere  bodily 
indisposition.  She  forced  herself,  however,  to  continue  in  the  par- 
xour  till  after  tea,  when  cards  being  produced,  she  had  an  opportunity 
of  going  out  and  indulging  her  anguish  Avithout  fear  of  interruption . 
unable,  however,  to  walk  far,  she  repaired  to  the  old  chapel,  and 
sitting  down  by  it,  leaned  her  head  against  its  decayed  and  ivy- 
covered  walls.  She  had  scarcely  sat  in  this  manner  a minute  when 
the  stones  gave  way  with  a noise  that  terrified  her,  and  she  would 
have  fallen  backwards,  had  she  not  caught  at  some  projecting  wood. 

Jiastily  rose,  and  found  that  the  ivy  entirely  concealed  the 
breach.  She  examined  it,  hoAvever,  and  perceived  it  large  enough  to 
adrc.it  ner  into  the  chapel.  A sudden  pleasure  pervaded  her  heart  at 
the  idea  of  being  able  to  enter  it,  and  examine  the  picture  she  had  so 


452 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


long  Wished  to  behold.  There  was  nothing  to  oppose  her  enliranoe 
but  the  ivy.  This  she  parted  with  difficulty,  hut  so  as  not  ':o  strip  it 
from  the  wall,  and  after  stepping  over  the  fallen  rubbish,  she  found 
herself  in  the  body  of  the  chapel.  The  silent  hour  of  twilight  was 
now  advanced,  but  the  moonbeams  that  darted  through  the  broken 
roof,  prevented  the  chapel  from  being  involved  in  utter  darkness. 
Already'  had  the  owls  began  their  melancholy  strains  on  its  mouldei- 
ing  pillars,  while  the  ravens  croaked  amongst  the  luxuriant  trees  that 
rustled  around  it:  dusty  and  moth-eaten  banners  were  suspendei 
from  the  walls,  and  rusty  casques,  shields,  and  spears  were  promiscu- 
ously heaped  together,  the  useless  armour  of  those,  over  whoso 
remains  Amanda  now  trod  with  a light  and  trembling  foot.  She 
looked  for  the  picture,  and  perceived  one  reclined  against  the  wall, 
near  the  altar.  She  wiped  away  the  dust,  and  perceived  this  was 
indeed  the  one  she  sought,  the  one  her  father  had  so  often^described 
to  her.  The  light  was  too  imperfect  for  her  to  distinguish  the  feat- 
ures, and  she  resolved,  if  possible,  to  come  at  an  earlier  hour  the 
ensuing  evening.  She  felt  impressed  with  reverential  awe  as  she 
stood  before  it.  She  recollected  the  pathetic  manner  in  which  her 
father  had  mentioned  his  emotions  as  he  gazed  upon  it,  and  her  team 
began  to  flow  for  the  disastrous  fate  of  her  parents  and  her  own.  She 
sunk  into  an  agony  of  grief,  which  mournful  remembrances  and  pres- 
ent calamities  excited,  upon  the  steps  of  that  altar,  where  Fitzalan 
and  Malvina  had  plighted  their  irrevocable  vows ; she  leaned  her 
arms  on  the  rails,  but  her  face  was  turned  to  the  picture,  as  if  it  could 
see,  and  would  pity  her  distress.  She  remained  in  this  situation  till 
the  striking  of  the  Abbey  clock  warned  her  to  depart.  In  going 
towards  the  entrance  she  perceived  a small  arched  door  at  the  opposite 
side.  As  the  apartments  Lady  Malvina  had  occupied  were  in  this 
part  of  the  building,  she  resolved  on  visiting  them  before  she  left  the 
Abbey,  lest  the  breach  in  the  wall  should  be  discovered  ere  she 
returned  to  it.  She  returned  to  the  parlour  ere  the  ladies  had  finished 
their  game  of  piquet,  and  the  next  evening,  immediately  after  tea^, 
repaired  to  the  chapel,  leaving  them  as  usual  engaged  at  cards.  She 
stood  a few  minutes  before  it  to  see  if  any  one  was  near;  but  perceiv- 
ing no  object,  she  again  entered  it.  She  had  now  sufficient  light  to 
examine  the  picture : though  faded  by  the  damp,  it  yet  retained  that 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


453 


icveliness  for  wliich  its  original  was  so  mucli  admired,  and  wMcli 
Amanda  had  so  often  heard  eloquently  described  by  her  father.  She 
contemplated  it  with  awe  and  pity.  Her  heart  swelled  with  the 
emotions  it  excited,  and  gave  way  to  its  feelings  in  tears.  To  weep 
before  the  shade  of  her  mother,  seemed  to  assuage  the  bitterness  of 
those  feelings.  She  pronounced  the  name  of  her  parents,  she  called 
herself  their  wretched  orphan,  a stranger  and  a dependant,  in  the 
mansion  of  her  ancestors.  She  pronounced  the  name  of  Lord  Mr  rti- 
mer  in  the  impassioned  accents  of  tenderness  and  distress.  As  she 
thus  indulged  the  sorrows  of  her  soul  in  tears  and  lamentations, 
she  suddenly  heard  a faint  noise  like  an  advancing  footstep  near  her. 
She  started  up,  for  she  had  been  kneeling  before  her  mother’s  picture, 
terrified  lest  her  visit  to  the  chapel  had  been  discovered,  which 
she  knew,  if  the  case,  would  mortally  disoblige  Mrs.  Bruce,  though 
why  she  should  be  so  averse  to  any  one’s  visiting  it  she  could  not 
conceive.  She  listened  in  trembling  anxiety  a few  minutes ; all  again 
was  still,  and  she  returned  to  the  parlour,  where  she  found  the' ladies 
as  she  had  left  them ; determined,  notwithstanding  her  late  fright, 
to  return  the  next  evening  to  the  chapel,  and  visit  the  apartments 
vhat  were  her  mother’s. 


OHAPTEK  XLYI. 


What  beck’ning  ghost  along  the  moonlight  shade 
Invites  my  steps? 

Pers. 


The  next  evening  Amanda’s  patience  was  put  to  the  test;  for  afiei 
tea,  Mrs.  Duncan  iiroposed  a walk,  which  seemed  to  cut  oflf  her  hopes 
of  visiting  the  chapel  that  evening;  but  after  strolling  some  time 
about  the  valley,  complaisance  for  her  aur  t made  Mrs.  Duncan  return 
to  the  ])arlour,  where  she  was  expected  to  take  her  usual  hand  at 
piquet.  The  hour  was  late,  and  the  sky  so  gloomy,  that  the  moon, 
though  at  its  full,  could  scarcely  penetrate  tlxO  darkness,  not  with- 


454 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY. 


standing  all  this,  Amanda  resolved  on  going  to  the  chapel,  consider- 
ing this  as,  in  all  probability,  the  only  opportunity  she  woula  have 
of  visiting  the  apartments  her  mother  had  occupied  (which  she  had 
an  inexpressible  desire  to  enter,)  as  in  two  days  she  was  to  accompany 
Mrs.  Duncan  to  lodgings  in  the  neighbouring  town:  she  accordingly 
said  she  had  a mind  to  walk  a little  longer.  Mrs.  Bruce  bid  her 
beware  of  catching  cold,  and  Mrs.  Duncan  said  she  was  too  fond  of 
solitary  rambles ; but  no  opposition  being  made  to  her  intention,  she 
liarried  to  the  chapel,  and  entering  the  little  arched  door,  found  her- 
sdf  in  a lofty  hall,  in  the  centre  of  which  was  a grand  staircase,  the 
wliole  enlightened  by  a large  Gothic  window  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
— She  ascended  them  with  a trepidation,  for  her  footsteps  produced  a 
hollow  echo  which  added  something  awful  to  the  gloom  that  envel- 
oped her.  On  gaining  the  top  of  the  stairs,  she  saw  tAvo  large  folding 
doors  on  either  side,  both  closed.  She  knew  the  direction  to  take, 
and  by  a small  exertion  of  strength,  pulled  the  one  on  the  left  side 
open,  and  perceived  a long  gallery,  which  she  knew  Avas  terminated 
by  the  apartments  she  wanted  to  visit.  Its  almost  total  darkness 
however,  nearly  conquered  her  Avish,  and  shook  her  resolution  of  pro- 
ceeding but  alarmed,  even  to  herself,  to  give  way  to  superstitious 
fears,  or  turn  back  without  gratifying  her  inclination  after  going  so  far, 
she  advanced  into  the  gallery,  though  with  a trembling  step,  and  as  she 
let  the  door  out  of  her  hand,  it  shut  to,  with  a violence  that  shook 
the  whole  building.  The  gallery  on  one  side  had  a row  of  arched 
doors,  and  on  the  other  an  equal  number  of  windows ; but  so  small, 
and  placed  so  high,  as  scarcely  to  admit  a ray  of  light. — Amanda’s 
heart  began  to  beat  with  unusual  quickness,  and  she  thought  she 
could  never  reach  the  end  of  the  gallery.  She  at  last  came  to  a door ; 
it  was  closed,  not  fastened ; she  pushed  it  gently  open,  and  could  just 
discern  a spacious  room:  this  she  supposed  had  been  her  mother'i 
dressing-room ; the  moon-beams,  as  if  to  aid  her  wish  of  examining 
it,  suddenly  darted  through  the  casements.  Cheered  by  the  unex- 
pected light,  she  advanced  into  the  room;  at  the  upper  end  of  it 
something  in  Avhite  attracted  her  notice;  she  concluded  it  to  be  Die 
portrait  of  Lady  Malvina’s  mother,  which  she  had  been  informed 
hung  in  this  room.  She  v/ent  up  vO  examine  it : but  her  horror  zmy 
be  better  conceived  than  doscribodj  Avlien  she  found  herself  not  by  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


455 


picture,  but  by  tlie  real  form  of  a woman,  with  a death -like  counte- 
uance ! She  screamed  wildly  at  the  terrifying  spectre  (for  such  she 
believed  it  to  be,)  and  as  quick  as  lightning  flew  from  the  room. 
-Again  was  the  moon  obscured  by  a cloud,  and  she  involved  in  utter 
darkness.  She  ran  with  such  violence,  tliat  as  she  reached  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  she  fell  against  it.  Extremely  huit,  she 
had  not  power  to  move  for  a few  minutes,  but  while  she  involuntary 
paused,  she  heard  approaching  footsteps.  Wild  with  terror,  she 
instantly  recovered  her  faculties,  and  attempted  opening  it,  but  it  resis- 
ted all  her  efforts. — ‘‘Protect  me.  Heaven!”  she  exclaimed,  and  at  the 
moment  felt  an  icy  hand  upon  hers ! Her  senses  instantly  receded, 
and  she  sunk  to  the  floor.  When  she  recovered  from  her  insensibility, 
she  perceived  a glimmering  light  around  her.  She  opened  her  eyes 
with  fearfulness,  but  no  object  appeared,  and  to  her  great  jcy  she  saw 
the  door  standing  open,  and  found  that  the  light  proceeded  from  a 
large  window.  She  instantly  rose  and  descended  the  ^aircase  with  as 
much  haste  as  her  trembling  limbs  could  make,  but  again,  what  was 
her  horror  when,  on  entering  the  chapel,  the  first  object  she  beheld 
was  the  same  that  had  already  alarmed  her  so  much ! She  made  a 
spring  to  escape  through  the  entrance,  but  the  apparition,  with  a 
rapidity  equal  to  hor  own,  glided  before  her,  and  with  a hollow  voice, 
as  she  waved  her  emaciated  hand,  exclaimed,  “ Forbear  to  go.” 

A deadly  faintness  again  came  over  Amanda ; she  sunk  upon  a 
broken  seat,  and  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  frightful 
vision. 

“ Lose,”  continued  the  figure  in  a hollow  voice,  “ lose  your  super- 
stitious fears,  and  in  me  behold  not  an  airy  inhabitant  of  the  other 
world,  but  a sinful,  sorrowing,  and  repentant  woman.” 

The  terrors  of  Amanda  gave  way  to  this  unexpected  address ; but 
her  surprise  was  equal  to  what  these  terrors  had  been ; she  withdrew 
her  hand,  and  gazed  attentively  on  the  form  before  her. 

“If  my  eye,  if  my  ear  deceives  me  not,”  it  continued,  “you  are 
a descendant  of  the  Dunreath  family.  I heard  you  last  night,  when 
you  imagined  no  being  near,  call  yourself  the  unfortunate  orphan  of 
Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan.” 

“I  am  indeed  her  child,”  replied  Amanda.  “Tell  me  then,  by 
what  means  you  have  been  brought  hither;  you  called  yourself  a 
stranget,  and  a dependant  in  the  house  of  your  ancestors.” 


456 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


“ I am  both,”  said  Amanda : “ my  real  name  is  concealed  from  c5r-» 
cumstances  peculiarly  distressing,  and  I have  been  brought  to  the 
Abbey  an  instructess  to  two  children  related  to  the  person  who  takes 
care  of  it.” 

‘‘My  prayers  at  length,”  exclaimed  the  ghastly  figure,  raising  her 
hollow  eyes  and  emaciated  hands,  “my  prayers  have  reached  the 
throne  of  mercy,  and  as  a proof  that  my  repentance  is  accepted, 
Dower  is  given  me  to  make  reparation  for  the  injuries  I have 
committed. 

“ Oh ! thou,”  she  cried,  turning  to  Amanda,  “ whose  form  revives 
in  my  remembrance  the  youth  and  beauty  blasted  by  my  means,  if 
thy  mind,  as  well  as  face,  resembles  Lady  Malvina’s,  thou  wilt,  in 
pity  to  my  sufferings,  forbear  to  reproach  my  crimes.  In  me,”  she 
continued,  “ you  behold  the  guilty,  but  contrite,  widow  of  the  Earl 
of  Dunreath.” 

Amanda  started.  “Oh,  gracious  Heaven!”  she  exclaimed,  “can 
this  be  possible  V[ 

“Have  you  not  been  taught  to  execrate  my  name?”  asked  the 
unhappy  woman. 

“ Oh ! no,”  replied  Amanda. 

“Ho,”  replied  Lady  Dunreath,  “because  your  mother  was  an 
angel.  But  did  she  not  leave  a son  ?” 

“Yes,”  said  Amanda.  “ And  does  he  live?” 

“ Alas ! I do  not  know,”  replied  Amanda,  melting  into  tears ; 
“distress  separated  us,  and  he  is  not  more  ignorant  of  my  destiny 
than  I am  of  his.” 

“ It  is  I,”  exclaimed  Lady  Dunreath,  “ have  been  the  cause  of  this 
distress ; it  is  I,  sweet  and  sainted  Malvina,  have  been  the  cause  of 
calamity  to  your  children ; but  blessed  be  the  wonder-working  hand 
of  Providence,”  she  continued,  “ which  has  given  me  an  opportunity 
of  making  some  amends  for  my  cruelty  and  injustice : but,”  she  pro- 
ceeded, “ as  I know  the  chance  which  led  you  to  the  chapel,  I dread 
to  detain  you  longer,  lestr  it  should  lead  to  a discovery.  Was  it 
known  that  you  saw  me,  all  my  intentions  would  be  defeated.  Be 
secret,  then,  I conjure  you,  more  on  your  own  account  than  on  my 
own,  and  let  not  Mrs.  Bruce  have  the  smallest  intimation  of  what 
has  passed : but  return  to-morrow  night,  and  you  shall  receive  from 
me  a sacred  deposit,  which  will,  if  affluence  can  do  it,  render  you 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


467 


completely  happy.  In  the  mean  time  do  yon  throw  upon  paper  a 
brief  account  of  your  life,  that  I may  know  the  incidents  which  so 
proYidentially  brought  you  to  the  Abbey.”  Amanda  promised  to 
obey  her  in  every  respect,  and  the  unfortunate  woman,  unable  longer 
to  speak,  kissed  her  hand,  and  retired  through  the  little  arched  door. 
Amanda  left  the  chapel,  and  full  of  wonder,  pity,  and  expectation, 
moved  mechanically  to  the  parlour.  Mrs.  Bruce  and  Mrs.  Duncan 
had  just  risen  from  cards,  and  both  were  instantly  struck  with  her 
pallid  and  disordered  looks.  They  inquired  if  she  was  ill:  their  inqui- 
ries roused  her  from  a deep  reverie.  She  recollected  the  danger  of 
exciting  suspicions,  and  replied,  “she  was  only  fatigued  with  walk- 
ing, and  begged  leave  to  retire  to  her  chamber.  Mrs.  Duncan 
attended  her  to  it,  and  would  have  sat  with  her  till  she  saw  her  in 
bed,  had  Amanda  allowed ; but  it  was  not  her  intention,  indeed,  to 
go  to  bed,  for  some  time.  When  left  to  herself,  the  surprising  and 
interesting  discovery  she  had  made  had  so  agitated  her,  that  she 
could  scarcely  compose  herself  enough  to  take  up  a pen  to  narrate 
the  particulars  of  her  life,  as  Lady  Dunreath  had  requested.  She 
sketched  them  in  a brief  yet  hasty  manner,  sufficiently  strong,  how- 
ever, to  interest  the  feelings  of  a sympathetic  heart:  the  tender  and 
peculiar  sorrows  of  her  own  she  omitted ; her  life  was  represented 
sufficiently  calamitous,  without  mentioning  the  incurable  sorrow 
which  disappointed  love  had  entailed  upon  it.  She  was  glad  she  had 
executed  her  task  with  haste,  as  Mrs.  Duncan  called  upon  her  in  the 
course  of  the  next  day  to  assist  in  packing  for  their  removal  to  the 
neighbouring  town.  The  evening  was  far  advanced  ere  she  had  an 
opportunity  of  repairing  to  the  chapel,  where  she  found  the  unfortu- 
nate Lady  Dunreath  resting,  in  an  attitude  of  deep  despondence, 
against  the  rails  of  the  altar. 

Her  pale  and  wo-worn  countenance ; . her  emaciated  form ; her 
solitary  situation,  all  inspired  Amanda  with  the  tenderest  compas- 
sion, and  she  dropped  a tear  upon  the  cold  and  withered  hand  which 
was  extended  to  hers  as  she  approached.  “ I merit  not  the  tear  of 
pity,”  said  the  unhappy  woman;  “yet  it  casts  a gleam  of  comfort  on 
my  heart  to  meet  with  a being  who  feels  for  its  sorrows ; but  the  mo- 
ments are  precious.”  She  then  led  Amanda  to  the  altar,  and  stooping 
down,  desired  her  assistance  in  removing  a small  marble  flag  beneath 


20 


458 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


it.  T]-‘is  being  effected  with  difficulty,  Amanda  perceived  an  iron  box, 
which  she  also  assisted  in  raising.  Lady  Dunreath  then  took  a key 
from  her  bosom,  with  which  she  opened  it,  and  took  from  thence  a 
sealed  paper.  “Eeceive,”  said  she,  presenting  it  to  Amanda,  “receive 
the  will  of  your  grandfather,  a sacred  deposit,  entrusted  to  your  care 
for  your  brother,  the  rightful  heir  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath.  Oh,  may 
its  restoration,  and  my  sincere  repentance,  atone  for  its  long  deten- 
tion and  concealment:  oh!  may  the  fortune  it  will  bestow  upon  you, 
as  well  as  your  brother,  be  productive  to  both  of  the  purest  hap* 
piiiess !” 

Trembling  with  joyful  surprise,  Amanda  received  the  paper. 
“Gracious  Heaven!”  exclaimed  she,  “is  it  possible?  Do  I really 
hold  the  will  of  my  grandfather — a will  which  will  entitle  my  brother 
to  affluence  ? Oh ! Providence,  how  mysterious  are  thy  ways  ! Oh ! 
Oscar,  beloved  of  my  heart,”  she  continued,  forgetting  at  that 
moment  every  consideration  of  self,  “ could  thy  sister  have  possibly 
foreseen  her  sorrows  would  have  led  to  such  a discovery,  half  their 
bitterness  would  have  been  allayed.  Yes,  my  father,  one  of  thy  chil- 
dren may  at  least  be  happy,  and,  in  witnessing  that  happiness,  the 
other  will  find  a mitigation  of  misery.”  Tears  burst  from  her  as  she 
spoke,  and  relieved  the  strong  emotions  that  swelled  her  heart  almost 
to  bursting. 

“ Oh ! talk  not  of  your  misery,”  said  Lady  Dunreath,  with  a con- 
vulsive sigh,  “ lest  you  drive  me  to  despair.  Eor  ever  I must  accuse 
myself  of  being  the  real  source  of  calamity  to  Lady  Malvina  and  her 
children.” 

“Excuse  me,”  cried  Amanda,  wiping  her  eyes;  “I  should  be 
ungrateful  to  Heaven  and  to  you  if  I dwelt  upon  my  sorrows ; buc 
let  me  not  neglect  this  opportunity,”  she  continued,  “ of  inquiring  if 
there  is  any  way  in  which  I can  possibly  servo  you.  Is  there  no 
friend  to  whom  I could  apply  in  your  name,  to  have  you  released 
from  this  cruel  and  unjustifiable  confinement?” 

“ Ho,”  said  Lady  Dunreath,  “ no  such  friend  exists ; when  I had 
the  power  to  do  so,  I never  conciliated  friendship,  and  if  I am  still 
remembered  in  the  world,  it  is  only  with  contempt  and  abhorrence. 
The  laws  of  my  country  would  certainly  liberate  me  at  once ; but  if 
things  turn  out  as  I expect,  there  will  be  no  occasion  for  an  applica 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


459 


tiOB  to  them,  and  any  step  of  that  kind  at  present,  might  he  attended 
with  the  most  unpleasant  consequences.  Your  future  prosperity,  ray 
present  safety,  all  depend  on  a secrecy  for  a short  period.  In  this 
paper,”  drawing  One  from  her  pocket  and  presenting  it  to  Amanda, 

I have  exphiined  my  reason  for  desiring  such  secrecy.”  Amanda 
put  it  with  the  will  into  her  bosom,  and  gave  in  return  the  little  nar- 
rative she  had  sketched.  They  both  assisted  in  replacing  the  box 
and  dag,  and  then  seated  themselves  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
Amanda  informed  Lady  Dunreath  of  her  intended  departure  the  next 
da>  from  the  Abbey,  and  the  occasion  of  it.  Lady  Dunreath 
expressed  the  utmost  impatience  to  have  everything  put  in  a proper 
train  for  the  avowal  of  the  will,  declaring  that  the  sight  of  the  right- 
ful heir  in  possession  of  the  Abbey,  would  calm  the  agitation  of  a 
spirit  which  she  believed  would  soon  forsake  its  earthly  habitation. — • 
Tears  of  compassion  fell  from  Amanda  at  these  words,  and  she  shud- 
dered to  think  that  the  unfortunate  woman  might  die  abandoned,  and 
bereft  of  comfort ; again  she  urged  her  to  think  of  some  expedient  for 
procuring  immediate  liberty,  and  again  Lady  Dunreath  assured  her  it 
was  impossible. 

Absorbed  in  a kind  of  sympathetic  melancholy,  they  forgot  the 
danger  of  delay,  till  the  Abbey  clock  chiming  half  an  hour  past  ten, 
which  was  later  than  Mrs.  Bruce’s  usual  hour  of  supper,  startled  and 
alarmed  them  both.  “ Go,  • go,”  cried  Lady  Dunreath,  with  wild 
expression  of  fear,  “go,  or  we  are  undone!”  Amanda  pressed 
her  hand  in  silence,  and  trembling  departed  from  the  chapel.  She 
stopped  at  the  outside  to  listen,  for  by  her  ear  alone  could  she  now 
receive  any  intimation  of  danger,  as  the  night  w^as  too  dark  to  permit 
any  object  to  be  discerned  ; but  the  breeze  sighing  amongst  the  trees 
of  the  valley,  and  the  melancholy  murmur  of  the  water  falls  were  tha 
only  sounds  she  heard.  She  groped  along  the  wall  of  the  chapel  to 
keep  in  the  path,  which  wound  from  it  to  the  entrance  of  the  Abbey, 
and  doing  so,  passed  her  hand  over  the  cold  face  of  a human  being; 
terrified,  an  involuntary  scream  burst  from  her,  and  she  faintly  arti- 
culated, “Defend  me,  Heaten  1”  In  the  next  moment  she  was  seized 
round  the  waist,  her  senses  were  receding,  when  Mrs.  Duncan’s  voice 
lecalled  them.  She  apologized  to  Amanda  for  giving  her  such  a 
fright : but  said,  that  her  uneasiness  was  so  great  at  her  long  absence 
that,  attended  by  a servant,  she  had  come  in  quest  of  her. 


460 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


Mrs.  Duncan’s  voice  relieved  Amanda  from  the  horror  (»f  thinking 
she  had  met  with  a person  who  would  insult  her ; hut  it  had  given 
rise  to  a new  alarm.  She  feared  she  had  been  traced  to  the  chapel, 
that  her  discourse  with  Lady  Dunreath  had  been  overheard,  and  of 
course  the  secret  of  the  will  discovered,  and  that  Mrs.  Duncan,  amia- 
ble as  she  was,  might  sacrifice  friendship  to  interest  and  consanguin- 
ity. This  idea  overwhelmed  her  with  anguish;  her  deep  and  heavy- 
sighs,  her  violent  trembling,  alarmed  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  hastily 
called  the  servant  to,  assist  her  in  supporting  Amanda  home ; drops 
were  then  administered,  but  they  would  have  wanted  their  usual  effi- 
cacy with  the  poor  night-wanderer,  had  she  not  been  convinced  by 
Mrs.  Duncan’s  manner  she  had  not  made  the  dreaded  discovery. 

Amanda  would  have  retired  to  her  chamber  before  supper,  but 
that  she  feared  distressing  Mrs.  Duncan  by  doing  so,  who  would  have 
imputed  her  indisposition  to  her  fright.  She  accordingly  remained 
in  the  parlour,  and  with  a mind  so  occupied  with  the  interesting 
events  of  the  evening,  that  she  soon  forgot  the  purpose  for  which  she 
sat  down  to  table,  and  neither  heeded  what  she  was  doing  or  saying. 
From  this  reverie  she  was  suddenly  roused  by  the  sound  of  a name 
forever  dear  and  precious,  which  in  a moment  had  power  to  recall 
her  wandering  ideas.  She  raised  her  ey^es,  and  with  a sad  intenseness 
fixed  them  on  Mrs.  Bnuce,  who  continued  to  talk  of  the  approaching 
nuptials  of  Lord  Mortimer.  Tears  now  fell  from  Amanda  in  spite  ol 
her  efforts  to  restrain  them,  and  while  drooping  her  head  to  wipe 
them  away,  she  caught  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Duncan  fastened  on  her  with 
an  expression  of  pity  and  curiosity.  A deep  crimson  suffused  the 
face  of  Amanda  at  the  consciousness  of  having  betrayed  the  secret  of 
lier  heart ; but  her  confusion  was  inferior  to  her  grief,  and  the  rich 
suffusion  of  one,  soon  gave  place  to  the  deadly  hue  of  the  other. 
‘‘Ah!”  thought  she,  “what  is  now  the  acquisition  of  wealth,  when 
happiness  is  beymnd  my  reach  ?”  Yet  scarcely  had  she  conceived  the 
thought  ere  she  wished  it  buried  in  oblivion.  “ Is  the  comfort  of 
independence,  the  power  of  dispensing  happiness  to  others,  nothing?” 
she  asked  herself.  “ Do  they  not  merit  gratitude  of  the  most  pure 
thankfulness,  of  the  most  fervent  nature,  to  Providence  ? They  do  ” 
die  cried,  and  paid  them  at  the  moment  in  the  siler.t  tribute  of  her 
heart. 

It  was  late  ere  the  ladies  separated  for  the  night,  and  as  soon  as 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


461 


Amanda  bad  secured  the  door  of  her  cliainber,  she  drew  from  her 
bosom  tl-e  papers  so  carefully  deposited  in  them,  and  sat  down  to 
poruse  the  narrative  of  Lady  Danreath. 


CHAPTER  XLYII. 

For  true  repentance  never  comes  too  late : 

As  soon  as  born  she  makes  herself  a shroud, 

The  weeping  mantle  of  a fleecy  cloud, 

And  swift  as  thought  her  airy  journey  takes. 

Her  hand  heaven’s  azure  gate  with  trembling  strikes 
The  stars  do  with  amazement  on  her  look ; 

She  tells  her  story  in  so  sad  a tone. 

That  angels  start  from  bliss,  and  give  a groan. 

Lee. 

‘‘Adoring  tne  Power  who  has  given  me  means  of  making  restitution 
for  my  Injustice,  1 take  up  my  pen  to  disclose  to  your  view,  oh!  lovely 
orphan  of  the  injured  Malvina,  the  frailties  of  a heart  which  has  long 
been  tortured  with  the  retrospect  of  past  and  the  pressure  of  present 
evil.  Convinced,  as  I have  already  said,  that  if  your  mind  as  well  as 
form  resembles  your  mother’s,  you  will,  while  you  condemn  the  sinner, 
commiserate  the  penitent,  and  touched  by  that  penitence,  offer  up  a 
prayer  to  Heaven  (and  the  prayers  of  the  innocent  are  ever  availing) 
for  its  forgiveness  unto  me. — ^Many  years  are  now  elapsed  since  the 
commencement  of  my  confinement,  years  which  diminished  my  hope 
of  being  able  to  make  reparation  for  the  injustice  and  cruelty  I had 
done  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan,  but  left  unabated  my  desire  of  doing  so. 

Ah ! sweet  Malvina!  from  thy  soft  voice  I was  doomed  never  to  hear 
my  pardon  pronounced;  but  from  thy  child  I may,  perhaps,  have  it 
accorded:  if  so,  from  that  blissful  abode,  where  thou  now  enjoyest 
felicity,  if  the  departed  souls  of  the  happy  are  allowed  to  view  the 
transactions  of  this  vrorld,  thine,  I am  convinced,  will  behold  with 
bcnignancy  and  compassion  the  wretch  who  covers  herself  with  shame 
to  atone  for  her  injuries  to  thee. 

But  I must  restrain  tliese  effusions  of  my  heart,  lest  I encroach  too  .. 
much  on  the  limited  time  allotted  to  make  what  I may  call  my  con^ 
fession  and  inform  you  of  particulars  necessary  to  be  known. 


465 


CniIDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Mj»  cruelty  and  insolence  tc  Lady  Malvina  you  no  doubt  already 
know,  in  my  conduct  to  her.  I forgot  the  obligations  her  mother  had 
conferred  upon  me,  whose  patronage  and  kind  protection  laid  the 
foundation  of  my  prosperity.  I rejoiced  at  her  marriage  with 
Captain  Fitzalan,  as  a step  that  would  deprive  her  of  her  father’s 
favour,  and  place  her  in  a state  of  poverty  which  would  conceal 
charms  I detested  for  being  superior  to  my  daughter’s. — The  earl’s 
resentment  was  violent  at  first:  but  with  equal  surprise  and  concern 
I soon  perceived  it  gradually  subsiding;  the  irrevocableness  of  the 
deed,  the  knowledge  tliat  he  wanted  no  acquisition  of  fortune,  above 
all,  Fitzalan’s  noble  descent,  and  the  graces  and  virtues  he  possessed, 
worthy  of  the  highest  station,  dwelt  upon  the  earl’s  imagination,  and 
pleaded  strongly  in  extenuation  of  his  daughter:  alarmed  lest  my 
schemes  against  her  should  be  rendered  abortive,  like  an  evil  spirit  I 
contrived  to  re-kindle,  by  means  of  my  agents,  the  earl’s  -esentment, 
they  presented  the  flagrant,  the  daring  contempt  Lady  Malvina  had 
shown  to  parental  authority,  and  that  too  easy  a forgiveness  to  it  might 
influence  her  sister  to  similar  conduct  with  a person  perhaps  less 
worthy,  and  more  needy,  if  possible,  than  Fitzalan. — This  last  sugges- 
tion had  the  desired  eflTect,  and  Lady  Malvina  he  declared  in  future 
should  be  considered  as  alien  to  his  family. 

I now  hoped  my  ambitious  views  relative  to  my  daughter  would 
be  accomplished ; I had  long  wished  her  united  to  the  Marquis  of 
Kosline ; but  he  had  for  years  been  Lady  Malvina’s  admirer,  and  was 
so  much  attached  to  her,  that  on  her  marriage  he  w^ent  abroad. — My 
arts  were  then  tried  to  prevail  on  the  earl  to  make  a will  in  Lady 
Augusta’s  favour ; but  this  was  a point  I could  not  accomplish,  and  I 
lived  in  continual  apprehension,  lest  his  dying  intestate  should  give 
Lady  Malvina  the  fortune  I wanted  to  deprive  her  of.  Anxious, 
how^ever,  to  procure  a splendid  establishment  for  my  daughter,  I 
everywhere  said  there  was  no  doubt  but  she  would  be  sole  heiress  to 
the  earl.  At  the  expiration  of  three  years  the  marquis  returned  to 
his  native  country ; his  unfortunate  passion  was  subdued,  he  heard 
and  believed  the  reports  I circulated,  and  stimulated  by  avarice,  his 
leading  propensity,  offered  his  hand  to  my  daughter  and  was  accepted. 
The  earl  gave  her  a large  portion  in  ready  money,  but  notwithstanding 
all  my  endeavours,  would  not  make  a settlement  of  any  of  his  estates  upon 
her;  I however  still  hoped,  and  the  marquis  from  vt^hat  I said,  believed 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


463 


chat  she  would  possess  all  his  fortune.  My  daughter’s  nuptials  added  to 
my  natural  haughtiness ; they  also  increased  my  love  of  pleasure^  hy 
atfording  me  more  amply  the  means  of  gratifying  it  at  the  presump- 
tuous entertainments  at  the  marquis’s  castle ; engaged  continually  in 
them,  the  earl,  whose  infirmities  confined  liim  to  the  Abbey,  was  left  to 
solitude,  and  the  care  of  his  domestics.  My  neglect  you  will  say  was 
impolitic,  w'hilst  I had  any  point  to  carry  with  him,  but  Providence 
has  so  wisely  ordained  it  that  vice  should  still  defeat  itself.  Had  I 
always  acted  in  uniformity  with  the  tenderness  I once  showed  the 
earl,  I have  little  doubt  but  what  at  last  I should  have  prevailed  on 
him  to  act  as  I pleased ; but  infatuated  by  pleasure,  my  prudence,  no, 
it  deserves  not  such  an  appellation,  forsook  me:  though  the  earl’s  body 
was  a prey  to  the  infirmities  of  age,  his  mind  knew  none  of  its  imbe- 
cilities, and  he  sensibly  felt,  and  secretly  resented  my  neglect : the 
more  he  reflected  on  it,  the  more  he  contrasted  it  with  the  attention 
he  Tvas  accustomed  to  receive  from  his  banished  Malvina,  and  the 
resentment  I had  hitherto  kept  alive  in  his  mind  against  her  gradually 
subsided,  so  that  he  was  well  prepared  to  give  a favourable  reception 
to  the  little  innocent  advocate  she  sent  to  plead  her  cause.  My  terror, 
my  dismay,  when  I surprised  the  little  Oscar  at  the  knee  of  his 
grandfather,  are  not  to  be  described.  The  tears  which  the  agitated 
parent  shed  upon  the  infant’s  lovely  cheek,  seemed  to  express  aflTec- 
tion  for  its  mother,  and  regret  for  his  rigour  to  her ; yet  amidst  these 
tears  I thought  I perceived  an  exulting  joy  as  he  gazed  upon  the 
child,  which  seemed  to  say,  “ Thou  wilt  yet  be  the  pride,  the  prop, 
the  ornament  of  my  ancient  house.”  After  circumstances  proved  I 
w^as  right  in  my  interpretation  of  his  looks ; I drove  the  little  Oscar 
from  the  room  with  frantic  rage.  The  earl  was  extremely  afifected. 
He  knew  the  violence  of  my  temper,  and  felt  too  weak  to  enter  into 
any  altercation  with  me ; he  therefore  reserved  his  little  remaining 
strefigth  and  spirits  to  arrange  his  afiairs,  and  by  passiveness  seemed 
yielding  to  my  sway ; but  I soon  found,  though  silent,  he  was  reso- 
lute. My  preventing  your  brother  from  again  gaining  access  to  his 
grandfather,  and  my  repulsing  your^  mother  when  she  requested  an 
interview  with  the  earl,  I suppose  you  already  know.  Gracious 
heaven ! my  heart  sickens,  even  at  this  remote  period,  when  I reflect 
on  the  night  I turned  her  from  her  paternal  home,  from  that  mansion, 
under  whose  roof  her  benevolent  mother  had  sheltered  my  tender 


164 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


years  from  the  rude  storms  of  adverse  life.  Oh!  black  and  base 
ingratitude,  dire  return  for  the  benefits  I had  received,  yet  almost  at 
the  very  instant  I comu^itted  so  cruel  an  action,  she  was  avenged. 
'No  language  can  describe  my  horrors  as  conscience  represented  to  mo 
the  barbarity  of  my  conduct.  I trembled  with  involuntary  fears  • 
sounds  had  power  to  terrify;  every  blast  which  shook  the  Abbey 
(and  dreadful  was  the  tempest  of  that  night)  made  me  shrink  as  if 
about  to^  meet  with  an  instantaneous  punishment. 

I trembled  at  my  undivulged  crimes, 

Unwhipt  of  justice. 

I knew  tne  earl  expected  either  to  see  or  hear  from  your  mother : 
he  was  ignorant  of  the  reception  she  had  met  from  me,  and  I Avas 
determined,  if  possible,  he  should  continue  so.  As  soon  as  certified 
of  Lady  Malvina’s  departure  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Abbey,  I 
contrived  a letter  in  Captain  Fitzalan’s  name,  to  the  earl,  filled  with 
the  most  cutting  and  insolent  reproaches  to  him  for  his  conduct  to 
his  daughter,  and  imputing  her  precipitate  departure  from  Scotland 
to  it.  These  unjust  reproaches  I trusted  would  irritate  the  earl  and 
work  another  revolution  in  his  mind,  but  I was  disappointed : he 
either  believed  the  letter  a forgery,  or  else  resolved  the  children 
should  not  suffer  for  the  fault  of  the  parent ; he  accordingly  sent  for 
his  agent,  an  eminent  lawyer  in  one  of  the  neighbouring  towns.  Thift 
man  was  lately  deceased,  but  his  son,  bred  to  liis  profession,  obeyed 
the  summons  from  the  Abbey.  I dreaded  his  coming,  but  scarcely 
had  I seen  him  ere  this  dread  was  lost  in  emotions  till  then  unknown ; 
a soft,  a tender,  an  ardent  passion  took  possession  of  my  heart,  on 
beholding  a man  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  adorned  with  every  natural 
and  acquired  grace  that  could  please  the  eye  and  ear.  Married  at  an 
early  period,  possessed  of  all  the  advantages  of  art,  said  and  believing 
myself  to  be  handsome,  I fiattered  myself  I might  on  his  heart  make 
an  impression  equal  to  that  he  had  done  on  mine ; if  so  I thought  how 
easily  could  the  earl’s  intentions,  in  favour  of  his  daughter,  be 
defeated,  for  that  love  will  readily  make  sacrifices  I had  often  heard. 
A will  was  made,  but  my  new  ideas  ahd  schemes  divested  me  ot 
uneasiness  about  it.  Melross  continued  at  the  Abbey  much  longer 
than  he  need  have  done,  and  Avhen  he  left  it  his  absence  was  of  short 
continuance.  The  earl’s  business  was  his  pretext  for  his  long  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


465 


frequeut  visits ; but  the  real  motive  ol  them  he  soon  discovered  tr' 
me,  encouraged  no  doubt  by  the  partiality  I betrayed.  I shall  not 
G^veli  on  this  pai-t  of  my  story,  but  I completed  my  crime  by  violat- 
ing my  conjugal  fidelity,  and  we  engaged  to  be  united  whenever  J 
was  at  liberty,  which  from  the  infirm  state  of  the  earl  I now 
believed  would  shortly  be  the  case.  In  consequence  of  this  ; Melross 
agreed  to  put  into  my  hands  the  earl’s  will,  which  had  been  intrusted 
ro  his  care,  and  he  acknowledged  drawn  up  entirely  in  favour  of  Lady 
Malvina  Fitzalan  and  her  offspring ; it  was  witnessed  by  friends  of 
his  whom  he  had  no  doubt  of  bribing  to  silence.  You  may  wonder 
that  the  will  was  not  destroyed  as  soon  as  I had  it  in  my  possession ; 
but  to  do  so  never  was  my  intention ; by  keeping  it  in  my  hands  .1 
trusted  I should  have  a power  over  my  daughter,  which  duty  and 
affection  had  never  yet  given  me.  Violent  and  imperious  in  her  dis- 
position, I doubted  not  but  she  and  the  marquis,  who  nearly  resem- 
bled her  in  these  particulars,  would  endeavour  to  prevent  from  pride 
and  selfishness,  my  union  with  Melross ; but  to  know  they  were  in 
my  power  Avould  cruslr  all  opposition  I supposed,  and  obtain  their 
most  flattering  notice  for  him— a notice,  from  my  pride  I found 
essential  to  my  tranquillity.  The  earl  requested  Melross  to  inquire 
about  Lady  Malvina,  which  he  promised  to  do;  but  it  is  almost 
unnecessary  to  say,  never  fulfilled  such  a promise.  In  about  a year 
after  the  commencement  of  my  attachment  for  Melross  he  expired, 
and  the  marchioness  inherited  his  possessions  by  means  of  a forgevl 
will  executed  by  Melross.  Ignorant  indeed  at  the  time,  that  it  was 
by  iniquity  she  obtained  them,  though  her  conduct  since  that  period 
has  proved  she  would  not  have  suffered  any  compunction  from  such 
a knowledge.  I removed  from  the  Abbey  to  an  estate  about  fifteen 
miles  from  it,  which  the  earl  had  left  me,  and  here,  much  sooner 
than  decency  would  have  warranted,  avowed  my  intention  of  marry- 
ing Melross  to  the  marquis  and  marchioness  of  Eosline.  The  con- 
sequences of  this  avowal  were  pretty  much  what  I had  expected. 
The  Diarquis,  more  by  looks  than  words,  expressed  his  contempt ; but 
the  marchioness  openly  declared  her  indignation ; to  think  of  uniting 
myself  to  a being  so  low  in  life  and  fortune,  she  said,  as  Melross  was 
an  insult  to  the  memory  of  her  father,  and  a degradation  to  his  illus- 
trlons  house ; it  would  also  be  a confirmation  of  the  scandalous  reports 
which  had  already  been  circulated  to  the  prejudice  of  my  character 

20=^ 


466 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


about  him.  Her  words  roused  all  the  -violence  of  my  soul;  I 
Upbraided  her  with  ingratitude  to  a parent,  who  had  stepped  beyond 
the  bounds  of  r'gid  propriety  to  give  her  an  increase  of  fortune.  My 
words  alarmed  her  and  the  marquis.  They  hastily  demanded  an 
explanation  of  them.  I did  not  hesitate  in  giving  one,  protesting  at 
the  same  time  that  I would  no  longer  hurt  my  feelings  on  their 
account,  as  I found  no  complaisance  to  my  wishes,  but  immediately 
avow  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan  the  lawful  heiress  of  the  Earl  of 
Dunreath.  The  marquis  and  the  marchioness  changed  colour;  I saAV 
tliey  trembled  lest  I should  put  my  threats  into  execution,  though 
with  consummate  art  they  pretended  to  disbelieve  that  such  a will  as 
I mentioned  existed. 

“ Beware,’'  cried  I,  rising  from  my  chair  to  quit  the  room,  “ lest  I 
give  you  too  convincing  a proof  of  its  reality ; except  I meet  with  the 
attention  and  complaisance  I have  a right  to  expect,  I shall  no  longer 
act  contrary  to  the  dictates  of  my  conscience  by  concealing  it. 
Unlimited  mistress  of  my  own  actions,  what  but  affection  for  my 
daughter  could  make  me  consult  her  on  any  of  them?  Her  disappro- 
bation proceeded  alone  from  selfishness,  since  an  alliance  with  Mel- 
ross,  from  his  profession,  accomplishments  and  birth,  would  not 
disgrace  a house  even  more  illustrious  than  the  one  she  is  descended 
from  \or  connected  to.  I retired  to  my  chamber,  secretly  exulting  at 
the  idea  of  having  conquered  all  opposition,  for  I plainly  perceived  by 
the  marquis  and  marchioness’s  manner,  that  they  were  convinced  it 
was  in  my  power  to  deprive  them  of  their  newly  acquired  possessions, 
which  to  secure,  I doubted  not  their  sacrificing  their  pride  to  my 
wishes : I exulted  in  the  idea  of  having  my  nuptials  with  Melross 
celebrated  with  that  splendour  I always  delighted  in,  and  the  prospect 
of  having  love  and  vanity  gratified,  filled  me  with  a kind  of  intoxi- 
cating happiness.  In  a few  hours  after  I retired  to  my  room,  the 
marchioness  sent  to  request  an  interview  with  me,  which  I readily 
granted.  She  entered  the  apartment  with  a respectful  air  very 
unusual  to  her,  and  immediately  made  an  apology  for  her  late  con- 
duct. She  acknowledged  I had  reason  to  be  offended ; but  a little 
reflectic  n had  convinced  her  of  her  error,  and  both  she  and  the  mar- 
quis thanked  me  for  consulting  them  about  the  change  I was  about 
making  in  my  situation,  and  would  pay  every  attention  in  their 
power  to  the  man  I had  honoured  with  my  choice.  That  I did  not 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


467 


Khink  the  marchioness  sincere  in  her  professions  you  may  believe,  but 
complaisance  was  all  I required.  I accompanied  her  to  the  marquis ; 
a general  recnnciliation  ensued,  and  Melross  was  presented  to  them. 

In  about  two  days  after  this  the  marchioness  came  into  my  dressing 
room  one  morning,  and  told  me  she  had  a proposal  to  make,  which 
she  hoped  would  be  agreeable  to  me  to  comply  with ; it  was  the 
marquis’s  intention  and  hers  to  go  immediately  to  the  continent,  and 
they  had  been  thinking,  if  Melross  and  I would  favour  them  with  our 
company,  that  we  had  better  defer  our  nuptials  till  we  reached  Paris, 
which  was  the  first  place  they  intended  visiting,  and  their  solemniza- 
tion in  Scotland  so  soon  after  the  earl’s  decease  miglit  displease  his 
friends,  by  whom  we  were  surrounded,  and  on  their  return,  which 
would  be  soon,  they  would  introduce  Melross  to  their  connexions,  as 
a man  every  way  worthy  of  their  notice. 

After  a little  hesitation  I agreed  to  this  plan,  for  where  it  interfered 
not  with  my  inclinations,  I wished  to  preserve  an  appearance  of  pro- 
priety to  the  world,  and  I could  not  avoid  thinking  that  my  marrying 
so  soon  after  the  earl’s  death  would  draw  censure  upon  me,  which  I 
would  avoid  by  the  projected  tour,  as  the  certain  time  of  my  nuptials 
could  not  then  be  ascertained.  Melross  submitted  cheerfully  to  our 
new  arrangements,  and  it  was  settled,  fartiier  to  preserve  appearances, 
that  he  should  go  before  us  to  Paris.  I supplied  him  with  every 
thing  requisite  for  making  an  elegant  appearance,  and  he  departed  in 
high  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  his  splendid  establishment  for  life. 

I counted  the  moments  with  impatience  for  rejoining  him,  and,  as 
Lad  been  settled,  we  commenced  our  journey,  a month  after  his 
neparture.  It  was  now  the  middle  of  winter,  and  ere  we  stopped  for 
the  night,  darkness,  almost  impenetrable,  had  veiled  the  earth; 
fatigued  and  almost  exhausted  by  the  cold,  I followed  the  Inarquis 
through  a long  -passage,  lighted  by  a glimmering  lamp,  to  a parlour 
which  was  weU  lighted  and  had  a comfortable  fire.  I started  with 
amazement  on  entering  it,  at  finding  myself  in  a place  I thought 
familiar  to  me ; my  surprise,  however,  was  but  for  an  instant,  yet  I 
could  not  help  expressing  it  to  the  marquis.  ‘‘  Your  eyes,  madam,” 
cried  he,  with  a cruel  solemnity,  ‘‘have  not  deceived  you,  for  you  are 
now  in  Dunreath  Aboey.”  . 

“Punreath  Abbey!”  I repeated;  “Gracious  Heaven ! what  can  be 
the  meaning  of  this  ?” 


468 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


‘^To  hide  your  folly,  your  imprudence,  your  deceit,  from  thd 
world,’’  he  exclaimed,  “to  prevent  your  executing  the  wild  projects 
of  a depraved  and  distempered  mind,  by  entering  into  a union  at  once 
contemptible  and  preposterous,  and  to  save  those,  from  whom  alone 
you  derive  your  consequence,  by  your  connexion  with  them,  farther 
mortification  on  your  account.” 

To  describe  fully  the  efiTect  of  this  speech  upon  a heart  like  mine  is 
impossible ; the  fury  which  pervaded  my  soul  would,  I believe,  have 
hurried  me  into  a deed  of  dire  revenge,  had  I had  the  power  of  exe- 
cuting it ; my  quivering  lips  could  not  express  my  strong  indignation. 

“ And  do  you  then,  in  a country  like  this,”  I cried,  “ dare  to  think 
you  can  deprive  me  of  my  liberty?” 

“ Yes,”  replied  he,  wdth  insulting  coolness,  “ when  it  is  known  you 
are  incapable^  of  making  a proper  use  of  that  liberty ; you  should 
thank  me,”  he  continued,  “for  palliating  your  late  conduct,  by 
imputing  it  rather  to  an  intellectual  derangement  than  to  total  depra- 
vity : from  what  other  source  than  the  former  could  you  have  asserted 
that  there  was  a will  in  Lady  Malvina  Fitzalan’s  favour?”  These 
words  at  once  developed  the  cause  of  his  unjustifiable  conduct,  and 
proved  that  there  is  no  real  faith  between  the  guilty.  From  my 
disposition,  the  marquis  was  convinced  that  I would  assume  a haughty 
sway  over  him  in  consequence  of  the  secret  of  the  will;  he  also 
dreaded  that  passion  or  caprice  might  one  day  induce  me  to  betray 
that  secret,  and  wrest  from  him  his  unlawful  possessions  ; thus  pride 
and  avarice  tempted  and  determined  him,  by  confining  me,  to  rid 
himself  of  these  fears.  " ^ 

“ Oh ! would  to  heaven,”  cried  I,  replying  to  the  last  part  of  his 
speech,  “ I had  proved  my  assertion ; had  I done  justice  to  others,  ^ 
should  fiot  have  been  entangled  in  the  snare  of  treachery.” 

“ Prove  the  assertion  now,”  said  he,  “ by  shewing  me  the  will,  and 
you  may,  perhaps,”  he  continued,  in  a hesitating  accent,  “ find  your 
doing  so  attended  with  pleasing  consequences.”  Page  and  scorn 
flashed  from  my  eyes  at  these  words.  “Mo,”  cried  I,  “had  you  the 
power  of  torturing,  you  should  not  tear  it  from  me.  I will  keep  it 
to  atone  for  my  sins,  and  expose  yours  to  view,  by  restoring  it  to  the 
right  owner.”  I demanded  my  liberty,  I threatened,  supplicated,  bat 
all  in  vain.  The  marquis  told  me  I might  as  well  compose  myself, 
for  my  fate  was  decided. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


4G9 


You  know,”  cried  he,  with  a malicious  look,  “you  have  no  friends 
to  inquire  or  interfere  about  you,  and  even  if  you  had,  when  I told 
them  what  I believed  to  be  the  case,  that  your  senses  were  disordered, 
they  would  never  desire  to  have  you  released  from  this  confinement.” 
I called  for  my  daughter.  “ You  will  see  her  no  more,”  he  rexfiied, 
“ the  passions  she  has  so  long  blushed  to  behold,  she  will  no  more 
witness.” 

“Eather  say,”  I exclaimed,  “that  she  dare  not  behold  her  injured 
parent,  but  let  not  the  wretch,  who  has  severed  the  ties  of  nature, 
hope  to  escajje  unpunished ; no,  my  sufferings  will  draw  a dreadful 
weight  ux)on  her  head,  and  may,  when  least  expected,  torture  her 
heart  with  anguish.”  Convinced  that  I was  entirely  in  the  marquis's 
power,  convinced  that  I had  nothing  to  hope  from  him  or  my 
daughter,  rage,  horror,  and  agony,  at  their  unjust  and  audacious 
treatment,  kindled  in  my  breast  a sudden  frenzy,  which  strong  con- 
vulsions only  terminated.  When  I recovered  from  them,  I found 
myself  on  a bed  in  a room,  which  at  the  first  glance,  I knew  to  bo 
the  one  the  late  Lady  Dunreath  had  occupied,  to  whose  honours  I so 
unworthily  succeeded. — ^Mrs.  Bruce,  who  had  been  housekeeper  at  the 
Abbey  before  my  marriage,  sat  beside  me ; I hesitated  a few  minutes 
whether  I should  address  her  as  a suppliant  or  a superior : the  latter, 
however,  being  most  agreeable  to  my  inclinations,  I bid  her,  with  a 
haughty  air,  which  I hoped  would  awe  her  into  obedience,  assist  mo 
in  rising  and  procure  some  conveyance  from  the  Abbey  without 
delay.  The  marquis  entered  the  chamber  as  I spoke.  “ Compos© 
yourself,  madam,”  said  he.  “Your  destiny,  I repeat  it,  is  irrevocable; 
tills  Abbey  is  your  future  residence,  and  bless  those  who  have  afforded 
your  follies  such  an  asylum ; it  behoves  both  the  marchioness  and  me, 
indeed,  to  seclude  a woman  who  might  cast  imputations  on  our 
characters,  which  those  unacquainted  with  them  might  believe.”  I 
started  from  the  bed  in  the  loose  dress  in  which  they  had  placed  me 
on  it,  and  stamping  round  the  room  demanded  my  liberty.  The  mar- 
quis heard  my  demand  with  contemptuous  silence,  and  quitted  the 
room.  I attempted  to  rush  after  him,  but  he  pushed  me  back  with 
violence,  and  closed  the  door.  My  feelings  again  brought  on  con- 
vulsions, which  terminated  in  a delirium  and  fever.  In  this  situa- 
iiGL  the  marquis  and  marchioness  abandoned  me,  hoping,  no  doubt^ 
tliat  my  disorder  would  soon  lay  me  in  a prison,  even  more  securo 


410 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


than  the  one  they  had  devoted  me  to.  Many  weeks  elapsed  ere  I 
sliowed  any  symptom  of  recovery.  On  regaining  my  senses,  I seemed 
as  if  awaking  from  a tedious  sleep,  in  which  I had  been  tortured 
with  frightful  visions.  The  first  object  my  eyes  beheld,  now  blessed 
with  the  powers  of  clear  perception,  was  Mrs.  Bruce  bending  over 
my  pillow  with  a look  of  anxiety  and  grief,  which  implied  a wish,  yet 
a doubt  of  my  recovery. 

“ Tell  me,”  said  I,  faintly,  ‘‘  am  I really  in  Dunreath  Abbey  ? Am 
I really  confined  within  its  walls  by  order  of  my  child?” 

Mrs.  Bruce  sighed.  ‘‘Do  not  disturb  yourself  with  questions 
now,”  said  she,  “ the  reason  heaven  has  so  mercifully  restored,  would 
be  ill  employed  in  vain  murmurs.” 

“ Yain  murmurs !”  I repeated,  and  a deep  desponding  sigh  burst 
from  my  heart.  I lay  silent  a long  time  after  this  ; the  gloom  whicli 
encompassed  me  at  length  grew  too  dreary  to  be  borne,  and  I desired 
Mrs.  Bruce  to  draw  back  the  curtains  of  the  bed  and  windows.  She 
obeyed,  and  the  bright  beams  of  the  sun  darting  into  the  room,  dis- 
played to  my  view  an  object  I could  not  behold  without  shuddering; 
this  was  the  portrait  of  Lady  Dunreath,  exactly  opposite  the  bed. 
My  mind  was  softened  by  iJlness,  and  I felt  in  that  moment  as  if  her 
sainted  spirit  stood  before  me,  to  awaken  my  conscience  to  remorse, 
and  my  heart  to  repentance ; the  benevolence  which  had  irradiated  the 
countenance  of  the  original  with  a celestial  expression,  was  power- 
fully expressed  upon  the  canvass,  and  recalled,  oh ! how  affectingly 
to  my  memory,  the  period  in  which  this  most  amiable  of  women 
gave  me  a refuge  in  her  house,  in  her  arms,  from  the  storms  of  life ; 
and  yet  her  child,  I groaned,  her  child  I was  accessory  in  destroying ; 
oh ! how  excruciating  were  my  feelings  at  this  period  of  awakened 
conscience ; I no  longer  inveighed  against  my  sufferings ; I consid- 
ered them  in  the  light  of  retribution,  and  felt  an  awful  resignation 
take  possession  of  my  soul.  Yes,  groaned  I to  myself,  it  is  fit  that  in 
the  very  spot  in  whicli  I triumphed  in  deceit  and  cruelty,  I shouid 
meet  the  punishment  due  to  my  misdeeds. 

The  change  in  my  disposition  produced  a similar  one  in  my  tem- 
per, so  that  Mrs.  Bruce  found  the  task  of  attending  on  me,  easier 
than  she  had  imagined  it  would  be;  yet  I did  not  submit  to  my 
confinement  without  many  efforts  to  liberate  myself  through  her 
means-;  but  her  fidelity  to  her  unnatural  employers  was  not  to  l-o 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


m 


sLaken ; bliisliirig,  however,  at  my  past  enormities,  I should  ratheT 
have  shrunk  from  that  solicited  admission  again  into  the  world,  had 
not  my  ardent  desire  of  making  reparation  to  the  descendants  of 
Lady  Dunreath  influenced  me  to  desire  my  freedon'i.  Oh!  never  did 
that  desire  cease — never  did  a morning  dawn,  an  evening  close, 
without  entreating  Heaven  to  allow  me  the  means  of  restoring  to  the 
irjured,  their  inheritance.  Mrs.  Bruce,  though  steady  was  not  cruel, 
and  nursed  me  with  the  tenderest  attention  till  my  health  was  re- 
established : she  then  ceased  to  see  me  except  at  night ; but  took  care 
I should  be  always  amply  stocked  with  necessaries.  She  supplied 
me  with  religious  and  moral  books ; also  materials  for  writing,  if  I 
chose  to  amuse  myself  with  making  comments  on  them.  To  those 
books  I am  indebted,  for  being  able  to  endure,  with  some  degree  of 
calmness,  my  long  and  dreadful  captivity : they  enlarged  my  heart, 
they  enlightened  its  ideas  concerning  the  Supreme  Being,  they 
impressed  it  with  awful  submission  to  his  will,  they  convinced  me 
more  forcibly  than  my  transgressions,  yet  without  exciting  despair, 
for  while  they  showed  me  the  horrors  of  vice  they  proved  the  efli- 
cacy  of  repentance.  Debarred  of  the  common  enjoyments  of  life,  air, 
exercise  and  society,  in  vain  my  heart  assured  me  my  punishment 
was  indaqueate  to  my  crimes,  nature  ripened  and  a total  languor 
seized  me.  Mrs.  Bruce  at  last  told  me  that  I should  be  allowed  the 
range  of  that  part  of  the  building  in  which  I was  confined  (for  I had 
hitherto  been  limited  to  one  room)  and  consequently  air  from  the 
windows,  if  I promised  to  make  no  attempt  for  recovering  my  free- 
dom, an  attempt  which  she  assured  me  would  prove  abortive,  as 
none  but  people  attached  to  the  marquis  lived  in  or  about  the  Abbey, 
who  would  immediately  betray  me  to  him,  and  if  he  ever  detected 
such  a step,  it  was  his  determination  to  hurry  me  to  France. 

Certain  that  he  would  be  capable  of  such  baseness,  touched  by  the 
smallest  indulgence,  and  eager  to  procure  any  recreation,  I gave  l^er 
the  most  solemn  assurances  of  never  attempting  to  make  known  my 
situation.  She  accordingly  unlocked  the  several  doors  that  had 
hitherto  impeded  my  progress  from  one  apartment  to  another,  and 
removed  the  iron  bolts  which  secured  the  shutters  of  the  window. 
Oh!  wuth  what  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  did  I contemplate  the  ricli 
prospect  stretched  before  them,  now  that  I jvas  debarred  from  enjoy- 
ing iti  at  liberty,  I wondered  how  I could  e^er  have  contemplated  it 


472 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


witli  a careless  eye,  and  my  spirits,  tvTucIi  the  air  had  revived, 
suddenly  sunk  into  despondence,  when  I reflected  I enjoyed  this 
common  blessing  but  by  stealth ; yet  who  (cried  I with  agony)  can  1 
blame  but  myself?  The  choicest  gifts  of  Heaven  were  mine,  I lost 
them  by  my  own  means ; wretch  as  I was,  the  first  temptation  that 
assailed  warped  me  from  integrity,  and  my  error  is  marked  by  the 
deprivation  of  every  good ; with  eager,  with  enthusiastic  delight,  I 
gazed  on  scenes  which  I had  often  before  regarded  with  a careless 
eye ; it  seemed  as  if  I had  only  new  perception  to  distinguish  their 
beauties;  the  season’s  difference  made  a material  change  to  me,  as  aU 
the  windows  were  shut  up  in  winter,  except  those  of  the  apartment 
I occupied,  which  only  looked  into  a gloomy  court ; ah ! how  welcome 
to  me  then  was  the  return  of  spring,  which  again  restored  to  ms  the 
indulgence  of  visiting  the  windows ; how  delightful  to  my  eyes  the 
green  of  the  valley,  and  the  glowing  bloom  of  the  mountain  shrubs 
just  bursting  into  verdure;  ah!  how  soothing  to  my  ear  the  lulling 
sound  of  water-falls,  and  the  lively  carol  of  the  birds;  how  refreshing 
the  sweetness  of  the  air,  the  fragrance  of  the  plants  which  friendly 
zeph^TS,  as  if  pitying  my  confinement,  wafted  through  the  windows ; 
the  twilight  hour  was  also  hailed  by  me  with  delight;  it  was  then  I 
turned  my  eyes  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  regarding  ’its  blue  and 
spangled  vault  but  as  a thin  covering  between  me  and  myriads  of 
angels,  felt  a sweet  sensation  of  mingled  piety  and  pleasure,  which 
for  the  time  had  power  to  steep  my  sorrows  in  forgetfulness ! But  in 
relating  my  feelings,  I wander  from  the  real  purpose  of  my  narrative, 
and  forget  that  I am  describing  those  feelings  to  a person,  who  from 
my  injurious  actions,  can  take  but  little  interest  in  them. 

The  will  I shall  deliver  to  you  to-night:  I advise  you,  if  your 
brother  cannot  immediately  be  found,  to  put  it  -in  the  hands  of 
some  man,  on  whose  abilities  and  integrity  you  can  rely ; but  till  yon 
meet  with  such  a person  beware  of  discovering  you  have  it  in  your 
posssesion,  lest  the  marquis,  who,  I am  sorry  to  say,  I believe  capable 
of  almost  any  baseness,  should  remove  from  your  knowledge  tlie 
penitent,  whose  testimony  to  the  validity  of  the  deed  wilt  so  cheer- 
fully be  given,  and  is  so  materially  essential:  be  secret  then,  I again 
conjure  you,  till  every  thing  is  properly  arranged  for  the  avowal  of 
your  rights ; and  oh  1 may  the  restoration  of  all  those  riglits  you  shall 
claim  be  to  you  and  to  your  brother,  productive  of  every  felicity. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  47S 

From  ycQi’  hands,  may  the  wealth  it  puts  into  them  bestow  relief  and 
comfort  on  the  children  of  adversity;  tl.us  yielding'to  your  hearts  a 
pure  and  permanent  satisfaction,  which  the  mere  possession  of  riches, 
or  their  expenditure  on  idle  vanities  can  never  bestow.  As  much  as 
possible  I wish  to  have  my  daughter  saved  from  public  disgrace ; 
from  me  you  will  say  she  merits  not  this  lenient  wish ; but  alas ! I 
hold  myself  accountable  for  her  misconduct ; intrusted  to  my  care  by 
Prcvidence,  I neglected  the  sacred  charge,  nor  ever  curbed  a passion, 
or  laid  the  foundation  of  a virtue.  Ah ! may  her  wretched  parent’s 
prayers  be  yet  availing,  may  penitence,  ere  too  late,  visit  her  hearty 
and  teach  her  to  regret  and  expiate  her  errors.  Had  she  been  united 
to  a better  man,  I think  she  never  would  have  swerved  so  widely 
from  nature,  and  from  duty  ; but  the  selfish  soul  o^  the  marquis, 
taught  her  to  regard  self  as  the  first  consideration  of  fife. 

Mrs.  Bruce  informed  me  that  the  marquis  had  wrHten  Melross, 
informing  him  that  I had  changed  my  mind,  and  would  +hink  no  more 
about  him,  and  she  supposed  he  had  procured  some  pleasant  estab- 
lishment in  France,  as  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  his  returning  from 
it.  She  made  several  attempts  to  prevail  on  me  to  give  up  the  will 
to  her;  but  I resisted  all  her  arts,  and  was  rejoiced  to  think  I had 
concealed  it  in  a place  which  would  never  be  suspected.  My  narra- 
tive now  concluded,  I wait  with  trembling  patienc"^  for  your 
expected  visit ; for  that  moment,  in  which  I shall  make  some  repara- 
tion for  my  injuries  to  your  mother;  I am  also  anxious  for  the 
moment  in  which  I shall  receive  the  promised  narrative  of  your  life, 
from  your  tears,  your  words,  your  manner,  I may  expect  a tale  of 
sorrow ; ah ! may  it  only  be  that  gentle  sorrow  which  yields  to  the 
influence  of  time,  and  the  sweets  of  friendship  and  conscious 
innocence. 

I cannot  forbear  describing  what  I felt  on  first  hearing  your  voice 
— a voice  so  like  in  its  harmonious  tone  to  one  I knew  had  long  been 
silent ; impressed  with  an  awful  dread,  I stood  upon  the  stairs,  which 
T was  descending  to  visit  the  chapel,  as  was  my  constant  custom  at 
the  close  of  the  day,  shivering  and  appalled,  I had  not  for  a few 
minutes  power  to  move ; but  when  I at  last  ventured  nearer  the  door, 
and  saw  you  kneeling  before  the  dust  covered  shade  of  her  I had 
injured,  when  I heard  you  call  yourself  her  wretched  orphan,  ah  ^ 
what  were  my  emotions ! an  awful  voice  seemed  sounding  in  my 


4T4 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


cvar.- -Behold  the  hour  of  restitution  is  arriv^ed!  Beheld  a being, 
whom  the  hand  of  Providence  has  conducted  hither  to  leceive 
reparation  for  the  injustice  you  did  her  parents ; adore  that  mighty 
hand  that  thus  affords  you  means  of  making  atonement  for  your 
offences.  I did  adore, it;  I raised  my  streaming  eyes,  my  trembling 
hands  to  Heaven,  and  blessed  the  gracious  power  which  had  granted 
my  prayer.  The  way  by  which  I saw  you  quit  my  retirement  proved 
to  me  your  entrance  into  it  was  unknown,  with  an  impatience  bor- 
dering on  agony  I waited  for  the  next  evening ; it  came  without 
bringing  you,  and  no  language  can  express  my  disappointment! 
dejected  I returned  to  my  chamber,  which  you  entered  soon  after, 
and  where  you  received  so  great  a fright;  yet  be  assured,  n3t  a 
greater  one  than  I experienced,  for  the  gloom  of  moonlight  which 
displayed  me  to  you,  gave  you  full  to  my  view,  and  I beheld  the  very 
form  and  face  of  Lady  Malvina.  In  form  and  face  you  may  alone 
resemble  her;  different,  far  different,  be  your  destiny  from  hers. 
Soon  may  your  brother  be  restored  to  your  arms.  Should  he  then 
shudder  at  my  name,  oh ! teach  him  with  a mercy  like  your  own,  to 
accord  me  forgiveness. 

Ye  sweet  and  precious  descendants  of  this  illustrious  house — ye 
rightful’  heirs  of  Dunreath  Abbey — may  your  future  joys  amply 
recompense  your  past  sorrows  1 May  those  sorrows  be  forgotten,  or 
only  remembered  to  temper  prosperity,  and  teach  it  pity  for  the  woes 
of  others ! May  your  virtues  add  to  the  renown  of  your  ancestors, 
and  entail  eternal  peace  upon  your  souls ! May  their  line  by  you  be 
continued,  and  continued  as  a blessing  to  all  around  I May  your 
names  be  consecrated  to  posterity  by  the  voice  of  gratitude,  and 
excite  in  others  an  emulation  to  pursue  your  courses ! 

Alas ! my  unhappy  child  I why  do  I not  express  such  a wish  for 
you  ? I have  expressed  it — I .have  prayed  for  its  accomplishment — I 
have  wept  in  bitterness  at  the  idea  of  its  being  unavailing ; lost  to 
the  noble  propensities  of  nature,  it  is  not  from  virtue,  but  from  pomp 
and  vanity,  you  seek  to  derive  pleasure. 

Oh,  lovely  orphans  of  Malvina ! did  you  but  know,  or  could  you 
but  conceive  the  bitter  anguish  I endure  on  my  daughter’s  account, 
you  would  think  yourselves  amply  avenged  for  all  your  injuries. 

Oh,  God ! ere  my  trembling  soul  leaves  its  frail  tenement  of 
let  it  be  cheered  by  the  knowledge  of  my  child’s  repentance. 


CHILDRr.  IT  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


475 


Oh ! yon  young  and  tender  pair,  who  are  about  entering  into  the 
dangerous  possession  of  riches,  learn  from  me  that  their  misapplica- 
tion, the  perversion  of  our  talents,  and  the  neglect  of  our  duties,  win, 
even  in  this  world,  meet  their  punishment. 

Kesolute  in  doing  justice  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  I am  ready, 
whenever  I am  called  upon,  to  bear  evidence  to  the  validity  of  the 
will  I chall  deliver  into  your  possession.  Soon  may  all  it  entitles  you 
to,  be  restored,  is  the  sincere  prayer  of  her  who  subscribes  herself 

The  truly  penitent 

Annabella  Duneeath. 


CHAPTER  XLYIII. 

Cease  then,  ah  ! cease,  fond  nature  to  repine 
At  laws,  which  nature  wisely  did  ordain  ; 

Pleasure,  what  is  it,  rightly  to  define  ? 

’Tis  but  a short-lived  interval  from  pain  : 

Or,  rather  each  alternately  renew’d. 

Gives  to  our  lives  a sweet  vicissitude. 

Brown. 

The  emotions  Amanda  experienced  from  reading  this  narrative, 
deeply  affected,  but  gradually  subsided  from  her  mind,  leaving  it  only 
occupied  by  pity  for  the  penitent  Lady  Dunreath,  and  pleasure  at  the 
prosj/ect  of  Oscar’s  independence,  a pleasure  so  pure,  so  fervent,  that 
it  had  power  to  steal  her  from  her  sorrows,  and  when  the  recollec- 
tion of  them  again  returned,  she  endeavoured  to  banish  it,  by  thinking 
of  the  necessity  there  was  for  immediately  adopting  some  plan  for 
the  disclosure  of  the  will,  Lady  Dunreath  had  advised  her  to  put  into 
tlie  hands  of  a friend  of  integrity  and  abilities. 

“ But  wdiere,”  cried  the  disconsolate  Amanda,  “ can  I find  such  a 
friend?”  The  few,  the  very  few  whom  she  had  reason  to  think 
regarded  her,  had  neither  powder  nor  ability  to  assist  her  in  wdiat 
would  probably  be  an  arduous  demand  for  restitution.  After  sitting 
considerable  time  in  deep  meditation,  the  idea  of  Rnshbrook 
enddenly  occurred,  and  slie  started,  as  if  in  joyful  surprise  at  the 
remembrance , she  considered  that,  though  almost  a stranger  t^/  him« 

l 


476  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

an  application  of  sncli  a nature  must  rather  be  regarded  as  a corapli- 
ment  than  a liberty,  from  the  great  opinion  it  would  prove  she  had 
of  his  honour  hy  intrusting  him  with  such  a secret.  From  his  looks 
and  manner  she  was  convinced  he  would  not  only  deeply  feel  for  the 
injured,  but  ably  advise  how  those  injuries  should  be  redressed. 
From  his  years  and  his  situation  there  could  be  no  impropriety  in 
addressing  him,  and  she  already  in  imagination  beheld  him  her  friend^ 
advocate,  and  adviser : he  also,  she  trusted,  would  be  able  to  put  hef 
in  a way  of  making  inquiries  after  Oscar.  Oh!  how  delightful  the 
prospect  of  discovering  that  brother,  of  discovering  but  to  put  him 
in  possession  of  even  a splendid  independence.  Ah ! how  sweet  the 
idea  of  being  again  folded  to  a heart  interested  in  her  welfare,  after 
so  long  a solitary  mourner  treading  the  rugged  path  of  life,  and 
bending  as  she  went  beneath  its  adverse  storm.  Ah  ! how  sweet 
again  to  meet  an  eye  that  should  beam  with  tenderness  on  hers ; an 
ear,  which  should  listen  with  attentive  rapture  to  her  accents,  and  a 
voice  that  would  soothe  with  softest  sympathy,  her  sorrows ; it  is 
only  those,  who,  like  her,  have  known  the  social  ties  of  life  in  all 
their  sweetness,  who,  like  her,  have  mourned  their  loss  with  all  the 
bitterness  of  anguish,  that  can  possibly  conceive  her  feelings  as  these 
rdeas  occurred  to  her  mind.  “ Oh ! Oscar,  oh ! my  brother,”  she 
exclaimed,  while  tears  v/et  her  pale  cheeks,  “ how  rapturous  the 
moment  which  restores  you  to  me ! IIow  delightful  to  think  your 
youth  will  no  more  experience  the  chill  of  poverty,  your  benevolence 
no  longer  suffer  restraints  I 'Now  will  your  virtues  shine  forth  with 
full  lustre,  dignifying  the  house  from  which  you  have  descended? 
doing  service  to  your  country,  and  spreading  diffusive  happiness 
around.” 

The  morning  surprised  Amanda  in  the  midst  of  her  meditations. 
She  opened  the  shutters  and  hailed  its  first  glories  in  the  eastern 
hemisphere;  the  sun-beams  exhaling  the  mists  of  thevalhy  displayed 
its  smiling  verdure,  forming  a fine  contrast  to  the  deep  shadows  that 
yet  partially  enveloped  the  surrounding  mountains;  the  morning 
breeze  gently  agitated  the  old  trees  from  whose  bending  heads 
liTiriumbered  birds  arose,  and  in  their  matin  notes  seemed  to  conse- 
crate the  first  return  of  day  to  the  Great  Author  of  Light  and  Life! 

Spontaneous  praises  burst  from  the  lips  of  Amanda,  and  she  felt  all 
that  calm  and  sweet  deliglit  which  ever  pewades  a mind  of  religion 


CIIil-DREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  477 

and  sensibility,  on  viewing  the  rural  beauties  of  natuie.  She  left  the 
charming  scene  to  try  and  get  a little  rest,  but  she  thought  not  ol 
undressing ; she  soon  snnk  into  a gentle  sleep,  and  awoke  with  reno- 
vated spirits  near  the  breakfast  hour. 

Mrs.  Bruce  expressed  the  utmost  regret  at  the  necessity  there  was 
for  parting  with  her  guests ; but  added,  that  she  believed,  as  well  as 
hoped,  their  absence  from  her  would  be  but  short,  as  she  was  sure  the 
marquis’s  family  would  leave  Scotland  almost  immediately  after  Lady 
Euphra^ia’s  nuptials.  In  vain  did  Amanda  struggle  for  fortitude  to 
support  the  mention  of  those  nuptials : her  frame  trembled,  her  heart 
sicken^^d  whenever  they  were  talked  of ; the  spirits  she  had  endea- 
voured to  collect,  from  the  idea  that  they  would  all  be  requisite  in 
the  important  affair  she  must  undertake,  fleeted  away  at  Mrs.  Bruce’s 
word«!,  and  a heavy  languor  took  possession  of  her. 

They  did  not  leave  the  Abbey  till  after  tea  in  the  evening,  and  the 
idea  that  she  might  soon  behold  her  brother,  the  acknowledged  heir 
of  that  Abbey,  cast  again  a gleam  of  pleasure  on  the  sad  heart  of 
Amanda,  a gleam,  I say,  for  it  faded  before  the  almost  instantaneous 
recollection,  that  ere  tliat  period  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Euphrasia 
would  be  united;  sunk  in  a profound  melancholy,  she  forgot  her 
situation,  heeded  not  the  progress  of  the  carriage  or  remarked  any 
object;  a sudden  jolt  roused  her  from  her  reverie,  and  she  blushed  as 
she  thought  of  the  suspicions  it  might  give  rise  to'Di  the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Duncan,  whose  intelligent  eye,  on  the  preceding  night,  had 
more  than  half-confessed  her  knowledge  of  Amanda’s  feelings.  She 
now,  though  with  some  embarrassment,  attempted  to  enter  into  con- 
versation, and  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  with  deep  attention  had  marked  her 
pensive  companion  with  much  cheerfulness,  rendered  the  attempt  a 
successful  one.  The  chaise  Tvas  now  turning  from  the  valley,  and 
Amanda  leaned  from  her  window  to  take  another  view  of  Dunreath 
Abbey.  The  sun  was  already  sunk  below  the  horizon,  but  a tract  of 
glory  still  remained,  that  marked  the  spot  in  which  its  daily  course 
was  finished ; a dubious  lustre  yet  played  around  the  spires  of  the 
Abbey,  and  while  it  displayed  its  vast  magnificence,  by  contrast 
added  to  its  gloom,  a gloom  heightened  by  the  dreary  solitude  of  ita 
situation,  for  the  valley  was  entirely  overshadowed  by  the  dark  pro- 
jection of  the  mountains,  on  whose  summits  a few  bright  and  linger- 
ing beams  yet  remained,  that  showed  the  wild  shrubs  wavicg  iu  tho 


478 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ereniDg  l)reeze.  A pensive  spirit  seemed  now  to  have  taken  posses-i 
sion  of  Mrs.  Duncan,  a spirit  congenial  to  the  scene,  and  the  rest  of 
the  little  journey  was  past  almost  in  silence;  their  lodgings  were  at 
the  entrance  of  the  town,  and  Mrs.  Druce  had  taken  care  they  should 
find  every  requisite  refreshment  within  them.  The  woman  of  the 
house  had  already  prepared  a comfortable  supper  for  them,  which 
w^as  served  up  soon  after  their  arrival.  When  over,  Mrs.  Duncan, 
assisted  oy  Amanda,  put  the  children  to  bed,  as  she  knew,  till  accus- 
tomed. to  her,  they  would  not  like  the  attendance  of  the  maid  of  the 
house.  Neither  she  or  Amanda  felt  sleepy ; it  was  a fine  moonlight 
night,  and  they  were  tempted  to  walk  out  upon  a terrace,  to  which  a 
glass  door  from  the  room  opened ; tlie  terrace  overhuug  a deep  valley 
which  stretched  to  the  sea,  and  the  rocky  promontory  tliat  terminated 
it,  was  crowned  with  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle,  the  moonbeams 
seemed  to  sleep  upon  its  broken  battlements,  and  the  waves  that  stole 
murmui’ing  to  the  shore  cast  a silvery  spray  around  it.  A pensivi/ 
pleasure  pervaded  the  hearts  of  Mrs.  Duncan  and  Amanda,  and,  con- 
versing on  the  charms  of  the  scene,  they  walked  up  and  down,  w'hen 
suddenly  upon  the  floating  air  they  distinguished  the  sound  of  a dis- 
tant drum  heating  the  tattoo : both  stopped,  and  leaned  upon  a frag- 
ment of  a parapet  wall,  which  had  once  stretched  along  the  terrace, 
and  Mrs.  Duncan,  who  knew  the  situation  of  the  country,  said  that 
the  sounds  they  heard  proceeded  from  a fort  near  the  town.  They 
ceased  in  a short  time,  but  were  almost  immediately  succeeded  by 
martial  music,  and  Amanda  soon  distinguished  an  admired  march  of 
her  father’s.  Ah ! how  affectingly  did  it  remind  her  of  him.  She 
recalled  the  moments  in  which  she  had  played  it  for  him,  while  he 
hung  over  her  chair  with  delight  and  tenderness,  she  wept  at  the 
tender  remembrance  it  excited,  wept  at  listening  to  sounds  which  had 
so  often  given  to  his  pale  cheek  the  flush  of  ardour. 

They  did  not  return  to  the  house  till  convinced  by  a long  interval 
of  silence,  that  the  music  had  ceased  for  the  night. 

Amanda  having  formed  a plan  relative  to  the  will,  determined  not  to 
delay  executing  it.  She  had  often  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Duncan  her 
uneasiness  concerning  her  brother,  as  an  excuse  for  the  melancholy 
that  lady,  in  a half-serious,  half-jesting  manner,  so  often  rallied  her 
about,  and  she  now  intended  to  assign  her  journey  to  London  (wiiich 
she  Wi'is  resolved  should  immediately  take  place)  to  lier  anxious  wish 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


479 


of  (Ifscoveriiig.,  or  at  least  inquiring  about  him;  the  next  morning  she 
accordingly  mentioned  her  intention.  Mrs.  Duncan  was  not  only 
5urprised  but  concerned,  and  endeavoured  to  dissuade  her  from  it,  by 
representing,  in  the  most  forcible  manner,  the  dangers  she  might 
experience  in  so  long  a journey  without  a protector. 

Amanda  assured  her  she  was  already  aware  of  these,  but  the  appre- 
hensions they  excited  were  less  painful  than  the  anxiety  she  suffered 
on  her  brother’s  account,  and  ended  by  declaring  her  resolution 
unalterable. 

Mrs.  Duncan,  who  in  her  heart  could  not  Idame  Amanda  for  such 
a resolution,  now  expressed  her  hopes  that  slie  wmuld  not  make  a 
longer  stay  in  London  than  w^as  absolutely  necessary,  declaring  that 
her  society  would  be  a loss  she  could  scarcely  support. 

Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  tenderness,  and  said,  “ she  hoped  they 
should  yet  enjoy  many  happy  days  together.”  She  proposed  travelling 
in  a chaise  to  the  borders  of  England,  and  tlien  pursuing  the  remainder 
of  the  journey  in  a stage  coach:  the  woman  of  the  house  was  sent 
for,  and  requested  to  engage  a carriage  for  her  against  the  morning, 
wdiich  she  promised  to  do,  and  the  intervening  time  was  almost 
entirely  passed  by  Mrs.  Dnncan  in  lamenting  the  approaching  loss  of 
Amanda’s  society,  and  in  entreaties  for  her  to  return  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. Till  this  period  she  did  not  know,  nor  did  Amanda  conceive, 
the  strength  of  her  friendship.  She  presented  her  purse  to  our 
heroine,  and  in  the  impassioned  language  of  sincerity,  entreated  her 
to  consider  it  as  the  purse  of  a sister,  and  take  from  it  wdiatever  was 
necessary  for  her  long  journey  and  uncertain  stay. 

A manda,  who  never  wished  to  lie  under  obligations,  when  she  could 
possibly  avoid  them,  declined  the  offer;  but  with  the  w^armest expres- 
sions of  gratitude  and  sensibility,  declaring  (what  she  thought  indeed 
would  be  the  case)  that  she  had  more  than  sufficient  for  all  her  pur- 
poses, all  tlierefore  she  would  accept  was  what  Mrs  Duncan  owed  her. 

Mrs.  Duncan  begged  her  to  take  a letter  from  her  to  a family,  near 
whose  house  her  first  day’s  journey  would  terminate:  they  were 
relations  of  Mr.  Duncan  she  said,  and  had  been  extremely  kind  to 
him  and  her ; she  had  kept  up  a correspondence  with  them  till  her 
removal  to  Dunreath  Abbey,  wdien  she  dropped  it,  lest  her  residence 
there  should  be  discovered;  but  such  an  opportunity  of  WTiting  to 
V'.em  by  a person  tvho  would  answer  all  their  inquiries  concerning 


480 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

her,  she  could  not  neglect;  besides,  she  continued,  they  were  the  meet 
agreeable  and  hospitable  people  she  had  ever  known,  and  she  w-ais 
convinced  would  not  suffer  Amanda  to  sleep  at  an  inn,  but  would 
probably  keep  her  a few  days  at  their  house,  and  then  escort  her  part 
of  her  way. 

Averse  to  the  society  of  strangers,  in  her  present  frame  of  mindj 
Amanda  said  she  would  certainly  take  the  letter,  but  could  not  possi- 
bly present  it  herself.  She  thanked  Mrs.  Duncan  for  her  solicitous 
care  about  her ; but  added,  whether  she  lodged  at  an  inn  or  private 
house,  for  one  night,  was  of  little  consequence,  and  as  to  her  journey 
being  retarded,  it  was  what  she  never  could  allow. 

Mrs.  Duncan  declared,  ‘‘  she  was  too  fond  of  solitude,”  but  did  not 
argue  the  point  with  her ; she  wrote  the  letter  however. 

They  took  leave  of  each  other  at  night,  as  the  chaise  was  ordered 
at  an  early  hour.  As  Mrs.  Duncan  folded  Amanda  to  her  heart,  she 
again  besought  her  to  hasten  back,  declaring,  “ that  neither  she  or 
her  little  girls  would  be  themselves  till  she  returned.” 

At  an  early  hour,  Amanda  entered  the  chaise,  and  as  she  stepped 
into  it,  could  not  forbear  casting  a sad  and  lingering  look  upon  a 
distant  prospect,  where  the  foregoing  evening  a dusky  grove  of  firs 
had  been  pointed  out  to  her  as  encompassing  the  Marquis  of  Rosline’s 
Castle.  Ah ! how  did  her  heart  sicken  at  the  idea  of  the  event  which 
either  had,  or  was  so  soon  to  take  place  in  that  castle  ! Ah ! how 
did  she  tremble  at  the  idea  of  her  long  and  lonesome  journey,  and  the 
difficulties  she  might  encounter  on  its  termination!  How  sad,  how 
soli'^ry  did  she  feel  herself ; her  mournful  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she 
raw  the  rustic  families  hastening  to  their  daily  labour,  for  her  mind 
Involuntarily  drew  a comparison  between  their  situation  and  her  own! 
And,  ah ! how  sweet  would  their  labour  be  to  her,  she  thought,  if 
she  like  them  was  encompassed  by  the  social  ties  of  life,  fears  before 
nnthought  of  rose  in  her  mind,  from  Tvhich  her  timid  nature  shrunk 
appalled,  should  Rushbrook  be  absent  from  London,  or  should  he  not 
answer  her  expectations  : but  “ I deserve  disappointment,”  cried  she, 
“ if  I thus  anticipate  it.  Oh ! let  me  not  be  over  exquisite 

“ To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  ills,” 

oppressed  as  I already  am  with  real  ones ;”  she  endeavoured  to  exert 
her  spirits  * she  tried  to  amuse  them  by  attending  to  the  objects  she 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


481 


past,  and  gradually  they  lost  somewhat  of  their  heaviness.  On 
arriving  in  London,  she  designed  going  to  the  haberdasher’s  where  it 
may  he  remembered  she  had  once  met  Mrs.  Eushhrook;  here  she 
hoped  to  procure  lodgings,  also  a direction  to  Kushbrook.  It  was 
about  five  when  they  stopped  for  the  night,  as  the  shortest  days  of 
autumn  would  not  permit  a longer  journey,  had  the  tired  horses, 
wdiich  was  not  the  case,  been  able  to  proceed.  They  stopped  at  the 
inn,  which  Mrs.  Duncan  had  taken  care  to  know  would  be  the  last 
stage  of  the  first  day’s  journey,  a small  but  neat  and  comfortable 
house,  romantically  situated  at  the  foot  of  a steep  hill  planted 
with  ancient  firs,  and  crowned  with  the  straggling  remains  of 
what  appeared  to  have  been  a religious  bouse,  from  a small  cross 
which  yet  stood  over  a broken  gateway;  a stream  trickled  from 
the  hill,  though  its  murmur  through  the  thick  underwood  alone 
denoted  its  rising  there,  and  wandering  round  the  inn,  flowed  in 
meanders  through  a spacious  vale,  of  which  the  inn  was  not  the  lone 
inhabitant,  for  cottages  appeared  on  either  side,  and  one  large  man- 
sion stood  in  the  centre,  whose  superior  size  and  neat  plantations, 
proclaimed  it  master  of  the  whole.  This  was  really  the  case,  for 
immediately  on  entering  the  inn,  Amanda  had  inquired  about  the 
Macqueen  family,  to  whom  Mrs..  Duncan’s  letter  was  directed,  and 
learned  that  they  inhabited  this  house,  and  owned  the  ground 
tc  a large  extent  surrounding  it.  Amanda  gave  Mrs.  Duncan’s  letter  to 
the  landlady,  and  begged  she  would  send  it  directly  to  Mrs.  Macqueen. 
The  inn  was  without  company,  aud  its  quiet  retirement,  together  with 
the  appearance  of  the  owners,  an  elderly  pair,  soothed  the  agitated 
spirits  of  Amanda.  Her  little  dinner  was  soon  served  up ; but  when 
over,  and  she  was  left  to  herself,  all  the  painful  ideas  she  had  so  sedu- 
lously, and  with  some  degree  of  success  attempted  to  banish  from  her 
mind  in  the  morning  by  attending  to  the  objects  she  passed,  now 
returned  with  full  or  rather  aggravated  force.  Books,  those  pleasing, 
and  in  affliction,  alleviating  resources,  she  had  forgotten  to  bring  along 
with  her,  and  aU  that  the  inn  contained  she  had  been  shown  on  a 
shelf  in  the  apartment  she  occupied,  but  without  finding  one  that  could 
possibly  fix  her  attention,  or  change  its  melancholy  ideas : a ramble, 
though  the  evening  was  uninviting,  she  preferred  to  the  passive 
hidulgence  of  her  sorrow,  and  having  ordered  tea  against  her  return, 
and  invited  the  landlady  to  it,  she  was  conducted  to  the  garden 

21 


482 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


of  the  inn,  from  whence  she  ascended  the  hill  by  a windirg 
path.  She  made  her  way  with  difficulty,  through  a path  which 
seldom  trodden  was  half  choked  with  weeds  and  brambles  ; the  wind 
blew  cold  and  sharp  around  her,  and  the  gloom  of  closing  day  was 
heightened  by  the  thick  and  lowering  clouds  that  involved  the  distant 
mountains  in  one  dark  shade,  blear  those  mountains  she  knew 
the  domain  of  Rosline  lay,  and  from  the  bleak  summit  of  the  hill,  she 
surveyed  them  as  a lone  mourner  would  survey  the  sad  spot  in  which 
the  pleasure  of  his  heart  was  buried;  forgetting  the  purpose  for 
v/hich  she  had  walked  out,  she  leaned  in  melancholy  reverie’ againsc 
the  fragment  of  the  ruined  building,  nor  heard  approaching  footsteps, 
till  the  voice  of  her  host  suddenly  broke  upon  her  ear.  She  started 
and  perceived  him  accompanied  by  two  ladies,  who  he  direcily 
informed  her  were  Mrs.  and  Miss  Macqueen.  They  both  went  up  to 
Amanda,  and  after  the  usual  compliments  of  introduction  were  over 
Mrs.  Macqueen  took  her  hand,  and  with  a smile  of  cordial  good  nature, 
invited  her  to  her  house  for  the  night,  declaring  that  the  pleasu^'e 
she  had  received  from  Mrs.  Duncan’s  letter  was  heightened  by  being 
introduced  through  its  means  to  a person  that  lady  mentioned  as  her 
particular  friend.  Miss  Macqueen  seconded  her  mother's  invitation, 
and  said  “ the  moment  they  had  read  the  letter  they  had  come  out  foi 
the  purpose  of  bringing  her  back  with  them.” 

“Ay,  ay,”  said  the  host  good  humouredly,  (who  was  himself 
descended  from  one  of  the  inferior  branches  of  the  Macqueens)  “ this 
is  the  way,  ladies,  you  always  rob  me  of  my  guests.  In  good  faith,  1 
think  I must  soon  change  my  dwelling,  and  go  higher  up  the  valley.” 

Conscious,  from  her  utter  dejection,  that  she  would  be  unable,  as  she 
wished,  to  participate  in  the  pleasures  of  conversation,  Amanda  declined 
the  invitation,  alleging  as  an  excuse  for  doing  so,  her  intention  of 
proceeding  on  her  journey  the  next  morning  by  dawn  of  day. 

Mrs.  Macqueen  declared,  that  she  should  act  as  she  pleased  in  that 
respect,  and  both  she  and  her  daughter  renewed  their  entreaties  for 
her  company  with  such  earnestness,  that  Amanda  could  no  longer 
refuse  them,  and  they  returned  to  the  inn,  where  Amanda  begged 
they  would  excuse  her  absence  a few  minutes,  and  retired  to  pay  her 
entertainers,  and  repeat  her  charges  to  the  postillion  to  be  at  che 
house  as  soon  as  he  should  think  any  of  the  family  stirring.  She  chen 
returned  to  the  ladies,  and  attended  them  to  their  mansion,  which 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


485 


miglit  well  be  termed  tbe  seat  of  hospitality.  The  family  consisted  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Macqneen,  four  sons  and  six  daughters,  all  now  past 
childhood,  and  united  to  one  another  by  the  strictest  ties  of  duty  and 
affection.  After  residing  a few  years  at  Edinburgh  for  the  improve* 
ment  of  tlie  young  people,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  returned  to  their 
mansion  in  the  valley,  where  a large  fortune  was  spent  in  the 
enjoyment  of  agreeable  society  and  acts  of  benevolence.  Mrs. 
Macqueen  informed  Amanda  during  the  walk  that  all  her  family 
were  now  assembled  together,  as  her  sons,  who  were  already  engaged 
in  different  professions  and  in  business  in  various  parts  of  the  kingdom, 
made  it  a constant  rule  to  pay  a visit  every  autumn  to  their  friends. 
It  was  quite  dark  before  the  ladies  reached  the  house,  and  the  wind 
was  sharp  and  cold,  so  that  Amanda  found  the  light  and  warmth  of 
the  drawing-room,  to  which  she  was  conducted,  extremely  agreeable. 
The  thick  window-curtains  and  carpeting,  and  the  enlivening  fire,  bid 
defiance  to  the  sharpness  of  the  mountain  blast  which  hov/led  without 
and  r'^ndered  the  comforts  within  more  delectable  by  the  effect  of 
contrast.  In  the  drawing-room  were  Mr.  Macqueen,  two  of  hi? 
daughters,  and  half  a dozen  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  whom  Amanda 
was  presented,  and  they  in  return  to  her.  In  the  countenance  of  Mr. 
Macqueen,  Amanda  perceived  a benevolence  equal  to  thai.  which 
irradiated  his  wife’s.  Both  were  past  the  prime  of  life,  but  in  him 
only  was  its  decline  visible.  He  was  lately  grown  so  infirm  as  to  be 
unable  to  remove  without  assistance,  yet  was  his  relish  for  society 
undiminished,  and  in  his  arm-chair,  his  legs  muffled  in  flannel,  and 
supported  by  pillows,  he  promoted  as  much  as  ever  the  mirth  of  his 
family,  and  saw  with  delight  the  dance  go  on  in  which  he  had  once 
mixed  with  his  children.  Mrs.  Macqueen  appeared  but  as  the  . elder 
sister  of  her  daughters,  and  between  them  all  Amanda  perceived  a 
strong  family  likeness ; they  were  tall,  well  but  not  delicately  made ; 
handsome,  yet  more  indebted  to  tlie  animation  of  their  countenances 
than  to  regularity  of  features  for  beauty,  which  was  rendered  luxuriant 
by  a quantity  of  rich  auburn  hair,  that  unrestrained  by  superfluous 
ornaments,  fell  in  long  ringlets  on  their  shoulders,  and  curled  with  a 
sweet  simplicity  on  their  white  polished  foreheads. 

So  the  boys  and  girls  are  not  yet  returned,”  said  Mrs.  Macqueen, 
addressing  one  of  her  daughters;  ‘‘I  am  afraid  they  have  taken  their 
friends  too  far  ” She  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  a party  was  hoard 


484 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


under  the  windows,  laughing  and  talking,  who  ascended  the  stairs 
immediately  in  a kind  of  gay  tumult.  The  drawing-room  door  opened, 
and  a lady  entered  (of  a most  prepossessing  appearance,  though  advanced 
in  life)  and  was  followed  by  a number  of  young  people. 

But,  oh ! what  were  the  powerful  emotions  of  Amanda’s  soul,  when 
amongst  them  she  beheld  Lady  Araminta  Dormer  and  Lord  Mortimer! 
— Shocked,  confused,  confounded,  she  strained  an  eye  of  agony  upon 
them,  as  if  with  a hope  of  detecting  an  illusion,  then  dropped  her  head, 
anxious  to  conceal  herself,  though  she  was  fatally  convinced  she  could 
be  but  a few  minutes  unobserved  by  them.  Never,  amidst  the  many 
trying  moments  of  her  life,  had  she  experienced  one  more  dreadful. 
To  behold  Lord  Mortimer,  when  she  knew  his  esteem  for  her  was  lost: 
at  a period,  too,  when  he  was  hastening  to  be  united  to  another  woman, 
oh!  it  was  agony,  torture  in  the  extreme:  vainly  did  she  reflect  she 
deserved  not  to  lose  his  esteem.  This  consciousness  could  not  at 
present  inspire  her  with  fortitude;  her  heart  throbbed  as  if  it  would 
burst  her  bosom,  her  frame  trembled,  and  she  alternately  experienced 
the  glow  of  confusion,  and  the  chill  of  dismay — dismay  at  the  idea  of 
meeting  the  silent  but  expressive  reproach  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  eye 
for  her  imaginary  errors — dismay  at  the  idea  of  meeting  the  con- 
tempt of  his  aunt  (who  was  the  lady  that  first  entered  the  room)  and 
sister. 


CHAPTEK  XLIX. 

It  would  raise  your  pity,  but  to  see  the  tears 
Force  thro’  her  snowy  lids  their  melting  course, 

To  lodge  themselves  on  her  red  murm’ring  lips, 

That  talk  such  mournful  things ; when  straight  a gale 
Of  starting  sighs  carry  those  pearls  away, 

As  dews  by  winds  are  wafted  from  the  flow’rs. 

Leb;. 

Bitterly  did  Amanda  regret  having  be^n  tempted  from  the  inn, 
and  gratefully  would  she  have  acquitted  fortune  of  half  its  malignancy 
to  her,  had  she  been  able  to  steal  back  unnoticed.  The  party  that 
entered,  engaged  in  talking  to  those  they  found  in  the  drawing-roo^n, 


i^HlLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


486 


(laughing  and  describing  their  ramble,  which  Lady  Araminta  said 
was  in  the  style  of  Will-o’-the-whisp  over  brakes  and  through  briers) 
were  sometime  before  they  observed  Amanda ; but  soon,  ah ! how 
much  too  soon  did  she  perceive  Mrs.  Macqueen  approaching  to  intro- 
duce those  of  hei  family,  who  were  just  returned. 

“ The  trying  moment  is  come,”  cried  Amanda,  “ oh ! let  me  not  by 
my  confusion  look  as  if  I really  was  the  guilty  thing  I am  supposed 
to  be.”  She  endeavoured  to  collect  herself,  and  rose  to  meet  the 
young  Macqueens,  by  a timid  glance  perceiving  that  they  yet  hid  her 
from  the  eyes  she  most  dreaded  to  encounter ; she  was  unable  however 
to  return  their  compliments,  except  by  a faint  smile,  and  was  again 
sinking  upon  her  seat,  for  her  frame  trembled  universally,  when  Mrs. 
Macqueen  taking  her  hand  led  her  forward,  and  presented  her  to 
Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  Dormer.  It  may  be  remembered 
that  Lady  Martha  had  never  before  seen  Amanda,  she  therefore  gave 
her,  as  Miss  Donald,  a benignant  smile,  which  had  she  supposed  her 
.^iss  Fitzalan,  would  have  been  lost  in  a contemptous  frown ; seldom, 
.ndeed,  had  she  seen  a form  more  interesting  than  our  heroine’s ; her 
mourning  habit  set  off  the  elegance  of  her  form,  and  the  languid 
delicacy  of  her  complexion,  whilst  the  sad  expression  of  her  counte- 
nance denoted  that  habit  but  the  shadow  of  the  unseen  grief  wliicb 
dwelt  within  her  soul ; her  large  blue  eyes  were  half  concealed  by 
their  long  lashes,  but  the  beams  that  stole  from  beneath  those  fringed 
curtains  were  full  of  sweetness  and  sensibility ; her  fine  hair,  discom- 
posed by  the  jolting  of  the  carriage  and  the  blowing  of  the  wind,  had 
partly  escaped  the  braid  on  which  it  was  turned  under  her  hat,  and 
Lung  in  long  ringlets  of  glossy  brown  upon  her  shoulders,  and  careless 
curls  about  her  face,  giving  a sweet  simplicity  to  it  which  heightened 
its  beauty.  IIow  dilferent  was  the  looL  she  received  from  Lady 
Araminta  to  that  she  had  received  from  Lady  Martlia!  in  the 
expressive  countenance  of  the  former  she  read  surprise,  contempt  and 
anger ; her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  unusual  colour,  her  eyes  sparkled 
with  uncommon  lustre,  and  their  quick  glances  pierced  the  palpitating 
h.eart  of  Amanda,  who  heard  her  repeat,  as  if  involuntary,  the  name 
of  Donald.  Ah!  how  dreadful  was  the  sound  to  her  earl— Ah!  how 
sad  a confirmation  did  it  convey,  that  every  suspicion  to  her  prejudice 
would  now  be  strengthened ! — “ Ah ! why — why,”  said  she  to  herself 
"‘was  I tempted  to  take  this  hated  name?  Why  did  I not  prefer 


486 


CHILDREN  OF  IHK  ABBEY. 


incurring  any  danger  to  which  my  own  might  have  exposed  me,  rather 
than  assume  any  thing  like  deceit  Happily  the  party  we:e  toe 
engrossed  by  one  another  to  heed  the  words  or  manner  of  Laay 
Araminta. 

Amanda  withdrew  her  hand  from  Mrs.  Macqueen,  and  mored 
tremblingly  to  her  seat;  but  that  lady,  with  a politeness  poor  Amanda 
had  reason  to  think  officious,  stopped  her. — “Miss  DonaM-Lord 
Mortimer !”  said  she.  Amanda  raised  her  head,  but  not  her  eyes^  and 
neither  saw  or  heard  his  lordship.  The  scene  she  had  dreaded  v-^as 
over,  and  she  felt  a little  relieved  at  the  idea.  The  haughty  glance  of 
Lady  Araminta  dwelt  upon  her  mind,  and  when  her  agitation  had  a 
little  subsided  she  stole  a look  at  her,  and  sa\v  Mrs,  Moequeen  sitting 
between  her  and  Lad}^  Martha,  and  from  the  altered  coun  tenance  of 
the  latter,  she  instantly  conjectured  she  had  been  informed  by  tier 
niece  of  her  real  name.  She  also  conjectured  from  the  glances 
directed  towards  her,  that  she  was  the  subject  of  conversation,  and 
concluded  it  was  begun  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  whether  Mrs. 
Macqueen  knew  anything  of  her  real  history. 

From  these  glances  she  quickly  withdrew  her  own,  and  one  of  the 
young  Macqueens  drawing  a chair  near  hers  began  a conversation 
with  all  that  spirit  and  vivacity  which  distinguished  his  family.  The 
mind  of  Amanda  was  too  much  occupied  by  its  own  concerns  to  be 
able  to  attend  to  airy  thing  foreign  to  them ; she  scarcely  knew  what 
he  said,  and  when  she  did  reply,  it  was  only  by  monosyllables.  At 
last  a question,  enforced  with  peculiar  earnestness,  roused  her  from 
this  inattention,  and  blushing  for  it,  she  looked  at  the  young  man, 
and  perceiving  him  regarding  her  with  something  like  wonder,  she 
now  for  the  first  time,  considered  the  strange  appearance  she  must 
make  amongst  the  company,  if  she  did  not  collect  and  compose  her 
spirits.  The  family  too,  to  whom  she  was  (she  could  not  help  think- 
ting)  so  unfortunately  introduced,  from  their  hospitality,  merited 
attention  and  respect  from  her;  she  resolved,  therefore,  to  struggle 
with  her  feelings,  and,  as  an  apology  for  her  absent  manner,  com- 
plained, and  not  without  truth,  of  a head-ache. 

Young  Macqueen  with  a friendly  w'armth  said  he  would  acquaint 
his  mothe^^  or  one  of  his  sisters  with  her  indisposition,  and  procure 
some  rem^'dy  for  it:  but  she  insisted  he  should  on  no  account  disturb 
the  company,  assuring  him  she  would  soon  be  'well:  She  tlien 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


487 


encltdavoiired  to  support  a conversation  with  him  ; but  ah  ! how  often 
did  she  pause  in  the  midst  of  what  she  was  saying,  as  the  sweet 
insinuating  voice  of  Mortimer  reached  her  ear,  who  with  his  native 
elegance  and  spirit,  was  participating  in  the  lively  conversation  then 
going  forward.  In  hers  with  young  Macqueen,  she  was  soon  inter- 
rupted by  his  father,  who,  in  a good  humoured  manner  told  his  son 
he  would  no  longer  suffer  him  to  engross  Miss  Donald  to  himself,  and 
desired  him  to  lead  her  to  a chair  near  his. 

Young  Macqueen  immediately  arose,  and  taking  Amanda’s  hand 
led  her  to  his  father,  by  whom  he  seated  her,  and  by  whom  on  the 
other  side  sat  Lady  Martha  Dormer : then,  with  a modest  gallantry, 
declared  it  was  the  first  time  he  ever  felt  reluctance  to  obey  his 
father’s  commands,  and  hoped  his  ready  acquiescence  to  them  would 
be  rewarded  with  speedy  permission  to  resume  his  conversation  with 
Miss  Donald.  Amanda  had  hitherto  prevented  her  eyes  from  wander- 
ing, though  they  could  not  exclude  the  form  of  Lord  Mortimer : she 
had  not  yet  seen  his  face,  and  still  strove  to  avoid  doing  so.  Mr. 
Macqueen  began  with  various  inquiries  relative  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  to 
which  Amanda,  as  she  was  prepared  for  them,  answered  with  tolera- 
ble composure.  Suddenly  he  dropped  the  subject  of  his  relation,  and 
asked  Amanda,  “ from  what  branch  of  the  Donalds  she  descended  ?” 
A question  so  unexpected,  shocked,  dismayed,  and  overwhelmed  her 
with  confusion.  She  made  no  reply  till  the  question  was  repeated, 
wLen,  in  a low  and  faltering  voice,  her  face  covered  with  blushes,  and 
almost  buried  in  her  bosom,  she  said,  “ she  did  not  know.” 

“ Weil,”  cried  he,  again  changing  his  discourse,  after  looking  at  her 
a few  minutes,  “ I did  not  know  any  girl  but  yourself  would  take 
such  pains  to  hide  such  a pair  of  eyes  as  you  have ; I suppose  you  are 
conscious  of  the  mischief  they  have  the  power  of  doing,  and  therefore 
it  is  from  compassion  to  mankind  you  try  to  conceal  them.” 

Amanda  blushed  yet  more  deeply  than  before  at  finding  her  down- 
cast looks  were  noticed.  She  turned  hers  with  quickness  to  Mr. 
Macqueen,  who  having  answered  a question  of  Lady  Martha’s,  thus 
proceeded : “ And  so  you  do  not  know  from  which  branch  of  the 
Donalds  you  are  descended?  Perhaps  now  you  only  forget,  and  if  I 
was  to  mention  them  one  by  one  your  memory  might  be  refreshed; 
but  first  let  me  ask  your  father’s  sir-name,  and  what  country  woman 
he  married,  tor  the  Donalds  generally  marry  amogst  each  other?” 


488 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


Oh  I how  forcibly  was  Amanda  at  this  moment  convinced  (if 
indeed  her  pure  soul  wanted  such  conviction)  of  the  pain,  the  shauxe 
of  deception,  let  the  motive  be  what  it  may  which  prompts  it. 
Involuntarily  were  her  eyes  turned  from  Mr.  Macqueen,  as  he  paused 
for  a reply  to  his  last  question,  and  at  the  moment  encountered  those 
of  Lord  Mortimer,  who  sat  directly  opposite  to  her,  and  with  deep 
attention  regarding  her,  as  if  anxious  to  hear  how  she  would  extricate 
herself  from  the  embarrassment  her  assumed  name  had  plunged  her 
into. 

Her  confusion,  her  blushes,  her  too  evident  distress,  were  all 
imputed  by  Mrs.  Macqueen  to  fatigue  at  listening  to  such  tedious 
inquiries ; she  knew  her  husband’s  only  foible  was  an  eager  desire  to 
trace  every  one’s  pedigree;  in  order,  therefore,  to  relieve  Amanda 
from  her  present  situation,  she  proposed  a party  of  whist,  at  which 
Mr.  Macqueen  often  amused  himself,  and  for  which  the  table  and 
cards  were  already  laid  before  him.  As  she  took  up  the  cards  to 
hand  them  to  those  who  were  to  draw,  she  whispered  Amanda  to  go 
over  to  the  tea-table. 

Amanda  required  no  repetition  now,  and  thanking  Mrs.  Macqueen 
in  her  heart  for  the  relief  she  afforded  her,  went  to  the  table,  around 
which  almost  all  the  young  people  were  crowded  • so  great  was  the 
mirth  going  on  amongst  them,  that  Miss  Macqueen,  the  gravest  of  the 
set,  in  vain  called  upon  her  sisters  to  assist  her  in  serving  the  trays, 
which  the  servants  handed  about,  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  had  more  than 
once  called  for ; Miss  Macqueen  made  room  for  Amanda  by  herself, 
and  Amanda,  anxious  to  do  anything  which  could  keep  her  from 
encountering  the  eyes  she  dreaded,  requested  to  be  employed  in 
assisting  her,  and  was  deputed  to  fill  out  the  coffee.  After  the  first 
performance  of  her  task.  Miss  Macqueen,  in  a whispering  voice,  said 
to  Amanda,  “Do  you  know  we  are  all  here  more  than  half  in  love 
with  Lord  Mortimer ; he  is  certainly  very  handsome,  and  in  his  man- 
ner is  quite  as  pleasing  as  his  looks,  for  he  has  none  of  that  foppery 
and  conceit  which  handsome  men  so  generally  have,  and  nothing  but 
the  knowledge  of  his  engagement  could  keep  us  from  pulling  caps 
about  him.  You  have  heard  to  be  sure  of  Lady  Euphrasia  Suther- 
land, the  Marquis  of  Kosiine's  daughter ; well,  he  is  going  to  be  mar 
ried  to  her  immediately.  She  and  the  marquis  and  marchioness  were 
here  the  other  day;  she  is  not  to  be  compared  to  Lord  Mortimer,  but 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


489 


she  lias  what  will  make  her  be  considered  very  handsome  in  the  eyes 
of  many,  namely,  a large  fortune.  They  only  stopped  to  breakfast 
here,  and  ever  since  we  have  been  on  the  watch  for  the  rest  of  the 
party,  who  arrived  this  morning,  and  were,  on  Lad;^  Martha’s 
account,  whom  the  journey  has  fatigued,  prevailed  to  stay  till 
to-morrow.  I am  very  glad  you  came  while  they  are  here;  I think 
both  ladies  charming  women,  and  Lady  Araminta  quite  as  handsome 
as  her  brother ; but  see,”  she  continued,  touching  Amanda’s  hand. 
“ the  conquering  hero  comes.”  Lord  Mortimer  with  difficulty  made 
his  w^ay  round  the  table,  and  accepted  a seat  from  Miss  Macqueen, 
which  she  eagerly  offered  him,  and  which  she  contrived  to  procure 
by  sitting  closer  to  Amanda.  To  her  next  neighbour,  a fine  lively 
girl,  Amanda  now  turned,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  her ; 
but  from  this  she  was  soon  called  by  Miss  Macqueen,  requesting  her 
to  pour  out  a cup  of  coffee  for  Lord  Mortimer. 

Amanda  obeyed,  and  he  arose  to  receive  it ; her  hand  trembled  as 
she  presented  it.  She  looked  not  in  his  face,  but  she  thought  his 
hand  was  not  quite  steady.  She  saw  him  lay  the  cup  on  the  table, 
and  bend  his  eyes  to  the  ground.  She  heard  Miss  Macqueen  address 
him  twice  ere  she  received  an  answer,  and  then  it  was  so  abrupt  that 
it  seemed  the  effect  of  sudden  recollection.  Miss  Macqueen  grew 
almost  as  inattentive  to  the  table  as  her  sisters,  and  Mrs.  Macqueen 
was  obliged  to  come  over  to  know  what  they  were  all  about.  At 
length  the  business  of  the  tea-table  was  declared  over,  and  almost  at 
the  same  moment  the  sound  of  a violin  was  heard  from  an  adjoining 
room,  playing  an  English  country  dance,  in  which  style  of  dancing 
the  Macqueens  had  been,  instructed  in  Edinburgh,  and  chose  this 
evening  in  compliance  to  their  guests.  The  music  was  a signal  for 
universal  motion;  all  in  a moment  was  bustle  and  gay  confusion. 
The  young  men  instantly  selected  their  partners,  who  seemed  ready 
to  dance  from  one  room  to  another.  The  young  Macqueen,  who  had 
been  so  assidious  about  Amanda,  now  came,  and  taking  her  hand,  as 
if  her  dancing  was  a thing  of  course,  was  leading  her  after  the  rest  Ox 
the  party,  when  she  drew  back,  declaring  she  could  not  dance.  8ur- 
p'^ised  and  disappointed,  he  stood  looking  on  her  in  silence,  as  if  irre- 
solute whether  he  should  not  attempt  to  change  her  resolution.  At 
last  he  spoke,  and  requested  she  would  not  mortify  him  by  a refusal, 

21* 


490 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. ^ 


Mrs.  Macqueeii  hearing  her  son’s  request,  came  forward  and  joined 
in  it.  Amanda  pleaded  her  headache. 

“ Do,  niy  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  “ try  one  dance,  my  girls  will 
tell  you  dancing  is  a sovereign  remedy  for  everything.”  It  was  pain- 
ful to  Amanda  to  refuse ; hut  scarcely  able  to  stand  she  was  utterly 
unable  to  dance ; had  even  her  strength  permitted  her  to  do  so. 
she  could  not  have  supported  the  idea  of  mingling  in  the  set  with 
Lord  Mortimer,  the  glances  of  whose  eye  she  never  caught  without  a 
throb  in  her  heart  which  shook  her  whole  frame.  One  of  the  Miss 
Macqueens  now  ran  into  the  room,  exclaiming,  Lord,  Colin,  what 
are  you  about?  Lord  Mortimer  and  my  sister  have  already  led  off; 
do  pray  make  haste  and  join  us,”  and  away  she  ran  again. 

“ Let  me  no  longer  detain  you,”  said  Amanda,  withdrawing  her 
hand. — Young  Macqueen  finding  her  inflexible,  at  length  went  oft'  to 
seek  a partner.  lie  was  as  fond  of  dancing  as  his  sisters,  and  feared 
he  should  not  procure  one ; but  luckily  there  were  fewer  gentlemen 
than  ladies  present,  and  a lady  having  stood  up  with  his  youngest  sis- 
ter he  easily  prevailed  on  her  to  change  her  partner. 

“We  will  go  into  the  dancing  room  if  you  please,”  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen to  Amanda,  “ that  will  amuse  without  fatiguing  you.”-Amanda 
would  rather  have  not  gone,  but  she  could  not  say  so,  and  they 
proceeded  to  it.  Lord  Mortimer  had  just  concluded  the  dance,  and 
was  standing  near  the  door  in  a pensive  attitude.  Miss  Macqueen 
being  too  much  engrossed  by  something  she  was  saying  to  the  young 
lady  next  to  her  to  mind  him.  The  moment  he  perceived  Amanda 
enter,  he  again  approached  his  partner,  and  began  chatting  in  a lively 
manner  to  her. — Amanda  and  Mrs.  Macqueen  sat  down  together,  and 
in  listening  to  the  conversation  of  that  lady,  Amanda  found  herself 
insensibly  drawn  from  a too  painful  attention  to  surrounding  objects. 
Dn  expressing  the  pleasure  which  a mind  of  sensibility  must  feel  on 
witnessing  such  family  happiness  as  Mrs.  Macqueen  possessed,  that  lady 
said,  “ she  had  reason  indeed  to  be  grateful  to  heaven,  and  was  truly 
so  for  her  domestic  comfort.  You  see  us  now  (she  continued)  in  our 
gayest  season,  because  of  my  son’s  company ! but  we  are  seldom  dull ; 
though  summer  is  delightful,  we  never  think  the  winter  tedious : yet 
though  we  love  amusement,  I assure  you,  we  dislike  dissipation : the 
mornings  are  appropriated  to  business,  and  the  evenings  to  recreation ; 
all  the  work  of  the  family  goes  through  the  hands  of  my  daughtens. 


CHILDREN  OE  THE  ABBEY, 


491 


and  they  wear  nothing  ornamental  vrhich  they  do  not  make  them- 
selves : assisted  by  their  good  neighbours  tliey  are  enabled  to  diversify 
their  amusements;  the  dance  succeeds  the  concert,  sometimes  smaix 
plays,  and  now  and  then  little  dramatic  entertainments.  About  two 
years  ago  they  performed  the  Winter  Tale ; their  poor  father  was  not 
then  in  his  present  situation.”  Mrs.  Macqueen  sighed,  paused  a min- 
ute and  then  proceeded ; “ time  must  take  something  from  us ; but  I 
should  and  do  bless  with  heartfelt  gratitude,  the  power  which  only  by 
its  stealing  liand,  has  made  me  feel  the  lot  of  human  nature.  Mr. 
Macqueen  (continued  she)  at  the  time  I mentioned  was  full  of  spirits, 
and  performed  the  part  of  Autolycus.  They  made  me  take  the  char- 
acter of  the  good  Paulina ; by  thus  mixing  in  the  amusements  of  our 
children,  we  have  added  to  their  love  and  reverence,  perfect  con- 
fidence and  esteem,  and  find,  when  our  presence  is  wanting,  the 
diversion,  let  it  be  what  it  may,  wants  something  to  render  it 
complete. — They  are  now  about  acting  the  Gentle  Shepherd. — Several 
rehearsals  have  already  taken  place  in  our  great  barn,  which  is  the 
theatre.  On  these  occasions  one  of  my  sons  leads  the  band,  another 
paints  the  scene,  and  Colin,  your  rejected  partner,  acts  the  part  of 
prompter.”  Here  this  conversation,  so  pleasing  to  Amanda,  and 
interesting  to  Mrs.  Macqueen,  was  interrupted  by  a message  from  the 
drawing-room,  to  inform  the  latter  the  rubber  was  over,  and  a 
new  set  wanted  to  cut  in. 

“I  will  return  as  soon  as  possible,”  said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  as  she  was 
quitting  her  seat.  If  Amanda  had  not  dreaded  the  looks  of  Lady 
Martha  almost  as  much  as  those  of  Lord  Mortimer  or  Lady  Araminta, 
Bhe  would  have  followed  her  to  the  drawing-room.  As  this  was  the 
case,  she  resolved  on  remaining  in  her  present  situation;  it  was  some 
time  ere  she  was  observed  by  the  young  Macqueens.  At  last  Miss 
Macqueen  came  over  to  her ; “ I declare,”  said  she,  you  look  so  sad 
and  solitary,  I wish  you  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  dance ; do  try 
this,  it  is  a very  fine  lively  one,  and  take  Flora  for  your  partner,  who 
you  see  has  sat  in  a corner  quite  discomposed  since  she  lost  her  part- 
ner, and  by  the  next  set  Colin  will  be  disengaged.” 

A manda  declared  she  could  not  dance,  and  Miss  Macqueen  being 
called  to  her  place  at  the  instant,  she  was.  again  left  to  herself ; Miss 
Macqueen,  however,  continued  to  come  and  chat  with  her,  whenever 
vne  could  do  so  without  losing  any  part  of  the  dance.  At  last  Lord 


492 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


Mortimer  followed  her.  The  eyes  of  Amanda- were  involuntarily 
bent  to  the  ground  when  she  saw  him  approach : “You  are  an  abso- 
lute run-away,”  cried  he  to  Miss  Macqueen,  “ how  do  you  suppose  I 
will  excuse  your  frequent  desertion  ?” 

“ Why,  Miss  Donald  is  so  lonesome,”  said  she. 

See,”  cried  he,  with  quickness,  “ your  sister  beckons  you  to  her ; 
suffer  me  (taking  her  hand)  to  lead  you  to  her.” 

Amanda  looked  up  as  they  moved  from  her,  and  saw  Lord  Mortb 
mer’s  head  half  turned  back ; Inlt  the  instant  she  perceived  him  hi? 
averted  it,  and  took  no  farther  notice  of  her.  When  the  set  w?*a 
finished.  Miss  Macqueen  returned  to  Amanda,  and  was  followed  by 
some  of  her  brothers  and  sisters ; some  of  the  gentlemen  also 
approached  Amanda,  and  requested  the  honour  of  her  hand,  but  she 
was  steady  in  refusing  all.  Kich  wines,  sweetmeats,  and  warm 
lemonade,  were  now  handed  about  in  profusion,  and  the  strains  of 
the  violin  were  succeeded  by  those  of  the  bagpipe,  pla^^ed  by  the 
family  musician,  venerable  in  his  appearance,  and  habited  in  the 
ancient  Highland  dress ; with  as  much  satisfaction  to  himself  as  his 
Scotch  auditors,  he  played  a lively  Scotch  reel,  which  in  a moment 
brought  two  of  the  Miss  Macqueens  and  two  gentlemen  forward,  and 
they  continued  this  dance  till  politeness  induced  them  to  stop,  that 
one  might  be  begun  in  which  the  rest  of  the  party  could  join.  Danc- 
ing continued  in  this  manner  with  little  intermission,  but  whenever 
there  was  an  interval,  the  young  Macqueens  paid  every  attention  to 
Amanda,  and  on  her  expressing  her  admiration  of  the  Scotch  music, 
made  it  a point  that  she  should  mention  some  favourite  airs,  that 
they  might  be  played  for  her ; but  these  airs,  the  lively  dance,  the 
animated  conversation,  and  the  friendly  attentions  paid  her,  could 
not  remove  her  dejection,  and  with  truth  they  might  have  said. 

That  nothing  could  a charm  Impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe. 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Macqueen  was  the  signal  for  the  dance  being 
ended.  She  made  the  young  people  sit  down  to  refresh  themselves 
before  supper  and  apologized  to  Amanda  for  not  returning  to  her ; 
but  said  Lady  Martha  Dormer  had  engaged  her  in  a conversation 
which  she  could  not  interrupt.  At  last  they  were  summoned  to  sup- 
per, which,  on  Mr.  Macqueen’s  account,  was  laid  out  in  a room  on 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  49‘i 

the  same  floor;  thither,  without  ceremony,  whoever  was  next  the 
door  first  proceeded.  Mr.  Macqneen  was  already  seated  at  the  table 
in  his  arm-chair,  and  Lady  Martha  Dormer  on  his  right  hand ; the 
eldest  son  was  deputed  to  do  the  honours  of  the  foot  of  the  table ; 
the  company  was  chequered,  and  Amanda  found  herself  seated 
between  Lord  Mortimer  and  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen ; and  in  conversing 
with  the  latter,  Amanda  sought  to  avoid  noticing  or  being  noticed  by 
Lord  Mortimer ; and  his  lordship,  by  the  particular  attention  which 
he  paid  Miss  Macqueen,  who  sat  on  his  other  side,  appeared  actuated 
by  the  same  wish.  The  sports  of  the  morning  had  furnished  the 
table  with  a variety  of  the  choicest  wild  fowl,  and  the  plenty  and 
beauty  of  the  confectionery  denoted  at  once  the  hospitable  spirit  and 
elegant  taste  of  the  mistress  of  the  feast;  gaiety  presided  at  the 
board,  and  there  was  scarcely  a tongue,  except  Amanda’s,  which  did 
not  utter  some  lively  sally;  the  piper  sat  in  the  lobby,  and  if  his 
strains  were  not  melodious,  they  were  at  least  cheerful.  In  the 
course  of  the  supper  Lord  Mortimer  was  compelled  to  foUow  the 
universal  example  of  drinking  Amanda’s  health ; obliged  to  turn  her 
looks  to  him,  oh ! how  did  her  heart  shrink  at  the  glance,  the 
expressive  glance  of  his  eye,  as  he  pronounced  Miss  Donald ; uncon- 
scious whether  she  had  noticed  in  the  usual  manner  his  distressing 
compliment,  she  abruptly  turned  to  young  Macqueen,  and  addressed 
some  scarcely  articulate  question  to  him.  The  supper  things  removed, 
the  strains  of  the  piper  were  silenced,  and  toasts,  songs,  and  senti- 
ments succeeded.  Old  Mr.  Macqueen  set  the  example  by  a favourite 
Scotch  air,  and  then  called  upon  his  next  neighbour.  Between  the 
songs  toasts  were  called  for.  At  last  it  came  to  Lord  Mortimer’s 
turn.  Amanda  suddenly  ceased  speaking  to  young  Macqueen.  She 
saw  the  glass  of  Lord  Mortimer  filled,  and  in  the  next  moment  heard 
the  name  of  Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland.  A feeling,  like  wounded 
pride,  stole  into  the  soul  of  Amanda : she  did  not  decline  her  head 
as  before,  and  she  felt  a faint  glow  upon  her  cheek.  The  eyes  of 
Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  she  thought  directed  to  her  with  an 
expressive  meaning.  “They  think,”  cried  she,  “to  witness  morti- 
fication and  disappointment  in  my  looks,  but  they  shall  not,  (if 
inaeed  they  are  capable  of  enjoying  such  a triumph)  have  it.” 

At  length  she  was  called  upon  for  a song.  She  declined  the  call ; 
but  Mr.  Macqueen  declared,  except  assured  she  ccmld  not  sing^  she 


4D4 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


BliOTLd  not  be  excused.  This  assurance,  without  a breach  of  truth, 
she  could  not  give ; she  did  not  wish  to  appear  ungrateful  to  her  kind 
entertainers,  or  unsocial  in  the  midst  of  mirth,  by  refusing  what  she 
was  told  would  be  pleasing  to  them  and  their  company ; she  also 
wished,  from  a sudden  impulse  of  pride,  to  appear  cheerful  in  those 
eyes,  she  knew  w^ere  attentively  observing  her,  and  therefore  after  a 
little  hesitation,  consented  to  sing.  The  first  song  which  occurred  to 
her  was  a little  simple  but  pathetic  air,  which  her  father  used  to 
delight  in,  and  which  Lord  Mortimer  more  than  once  had  heard  from 
her ; but  indeed  she  could  recollect  no  song  which  at  some  time  or 
other  she  had  not  sung  for  him.  The  simple  air  she  had  chosen 
seemed  perfectly  adapted  to  her  soft  voice,  whose  modulations  were 
inexpressibly  afiecting.  She  had  proceeded  through  half  the  second 
verse  when  her  voice  began  to  falter;  the  attention  of  the  company 
became,  if  possible,  more  fixed ; but  it  was  a vain  attention,  no  rich 
strain  of  melody  repaid  it,  for  the  voice  of  the  songstress  had  totally 
ceased.  Mrs.  Macqueen,  with  the  delicacy  of  a susceptible  mind, 
feared  increasing  her  emotion  by  noticing  it,  and  with  a glance  of 
her  expressive  eye,  directed  her  company  to  silence.  Amanda’s  eyes 
were  bent  to  the  ground.  Suddenly  a glass  of  water  was  presented 
to  her  by  a trembling  hand,  by  the  hand  of  Mortimer  himself.  She 
declined  it  with  a motion  of  hers,  and  reviving  a little  raised  her 
head.  Young  Macqueen  then  gave  her  an  entreating  whisper  to 
finish  her  song;  she  thought  it  would  look  like  affectation  to  require 
farther  solicitation,  and,  faintly  smiling,  again  began  in  strains  of 
liquid  melody,  strains  that  seemed  to  breath  the  very  spirit  of  sensi- 
bility, and  came  over  each  attentive  ear. 

Like  a sweet  sound 
That  breathes  upon  a bank  of  violets, 

Stealing  and  giving  odour. 

The  plaudits  she  received  for  her  singing  gave  to  her  cheeks  such 
a faint  tinge  of  red,  as  is  seen  in  the  blossoms  of  the  wild  rose.  She 
\Ya3  now  authorized  to  call  for  a song,  and,  as  if  doomed  to  experience 
cause  for  agitation.  Lord  Mortimer  was  the  person  from  whom  in  the 
rotation  of  the  table,  she  was  to  claim  it.  Thrice  she  was  requested 
to  do  this  ere  she  could  obey.  At  last  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face,  which  was  now  turned  towards  her,  and  she  saw  in  it  a confu- 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


495 


sioii  equal  to  that  she  herself  trembled  under.  Pale  and  red  by  turns 
he  appeared  to  her  to  wait  in  painful  agitation  the  sound  of  her  voice ; 
her  lip&  moved,  hut  she  could  not  articulate  a word.  Lord  Mortimer 
bowed,  os  if  he  had  heard  what  they  would  have  said,  and  then 
turhing  abruptly  to  Miss  Macqueen,  began  speaking  to  her. 

“ Come,  come,  my  lord,”  said  Mr.  Macqueen,  we  must  not  be  put 
off  in  this  manner.” 

Lord  Mortimer  laughed,  and  attempted  to  rally  the  old  gentleman ; 
but  he  seemed  unequal  to  the  attempt,  for  with  a sudden  seriousness 
he  declared  his  inability  of  complying  with  the  present  demand ; all 
further  solicitation  on  the  subject  was  immediately  dropped.  In  the 
round  of  toasts  they  forgot  not  to  call  on  Amanda  for  one ; if  she  had 
listened  attentively  when  Lord  Mortimer  was  about  giving  one,  no 
less  attentively  then  did  he  now  listen  to  her.  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  gave  Sir  Charles  Bingley.  After  the  toast  had 
passed,  “Sir  Charles  Bingley?”  repeated  Miss  Macqueen,  leaning  for- 
ward, and  speaking  across  Lord  Mortimer.  “ Oh ! I recollect  liira 
very  well,  his  regiment  was  quartered  some  years  ago  at  a little  fort 
come  distance  from  this,  and  I remember  his  coming  with  a shoot- 
ing party  to  the  mountains,  and  sleeping  one  night  here ; we  had  a 
delightful  dance  that  evening,  and  all  thought  him  a charming  young 
man.  Pray,  are  you  well  acquainted  with  him  ?” 

“ Yes — no,”  replied  Amanda. 

“Ah ! I believe  you  are  a sly  girl,”  cried  Miss  Macqueen,  laughing. 
“Pray,  my  Lord,  does  not  that  blush  declare  Miss  Donald  guilty?” 

“ We  are  not  always  to  judge  from  the  countenance,”  said  he,  dart- 
ing a penetrating,  yet  quickly  withdrawn  glance  at  Amanda.  “ Expe- 
rience,” continued  he,  “ daily  proves  how  little  dependence  is  to  be 
placed  on  it.”  Amanda  turned  hastily  away,  and  pretended,  by  speak- 
ing to  young  Macqueen,  not  to  notice  a speech  she  knew  directly 
pointed  at  her ; for  often  had  Lord  Mortimer  declared,  that  “ in  the 
lineaments  of  the  human  face  divine,  each  passion  of  the  soul  might 
well  be  traced.” 

“Miss  Macqueen  laughed,  and  said,  “she  always  judged  of  the 
countenance,  and  that  her  likings  and  dislikings  were  always  the 
effect  of  first  sight  ” 

The  company  broke  up  soon  after  this,  and  much  earlier  than  tlie 
usual  hour  on  account  of  the  travellers.  All  but  those  then  immo 


496 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


diatel}"  belonging  to  tbe  family  having  departed,  some  maids  of  tho 
house  appeared  to  show  the  ladies  to  their  respective  chambers.  Lady 
Martha  and  Araminta  retired  first:  Amanda  following  them, 
when  Mrs.  Macqueen  detained  her  to  try  and  prevail  on  her  to  stay 
two  or  three  days  along  with  them.  The  Miss  Macqueens  joined 
their  mother,  but  Amanda  assured  them  she  could  not  comply  with 
their  request,  though  she  felt  with  gratitude  its  friendly  warmth. 
Old  Mr.  Macqueen  had  his  chair  turned  to  the  fire,  and  his  sons  and 
Lord  Mortimer  were  surrounding  it.  '“Well,  well,”  said  he,  calling 
Amanda  to  him,  and  taking  her  hand,  “ if  you  will  not  stay  with  us 
now,  remember  on  your  return  we  shall  lay  an  embargo  on  you ; in 
the  meantime,  I shall  not  lose  the  privilege,  which  my  being  an  old 
married  man  gives  me.”  So  saying  he  gently  pulled  Amanda  to  him, 
and  kissed  her  cheek.  She  could  only  smile  at  this  innocent  freedom, 
but  she  attempted  to  withdraw  her  hand  to  retire.  “Now,”  said 
Mr.  Macqueen,  still  detaining  it,  “ are  all  these  young  men  half  mad 
with  envy !”  The  young  Macqueens  joined  in  their  father’s  gallantry, 
and  not  a tongue  was  silent  except  Lord  Mortimer’s ; his  head  rested 
on  his  hand,  and  the  cornice  of  the  chimney  supported  his  arm ; his 
hair,  from  which  the  dancing  had  shaken  almost  all  the  powder, 
hung  negligently  about  his  face,  adding  to  its  paleness  and  sudden 
dejection.  One  of  the  young  Macqueons  turning  from  his  brothers, 
who  were  yet  continuing  their  mirth  with  their  father,  addressed 
some  questions  to  Lord  Mortimer,  but  received  no  answer.  Again 
he  repeated  it.  Lord  Mortimer  then  suddenly  started,  as  if  from  a 
profound  reverie,  and  apologized  for  his  absence. 

“ Ay,  ay,  my  lord,”  exclaimed  old  Mr.  Macqueen  jocosely,  “ we 
may  all  guess  where  your  lordship  was  then  travelling  in  idea — a lit- 
tle beyond  tlie  mountains  I fancy : ay,  we  all  know  where  your  heart 
and  your  treasure  now  lie.” 

“Do  you?”  said  Lord  Mortimer,  with  a tone  of  deep  dejection,  and 
a hea^y  sigh,  with  an  air  also  which  seemed  to  declare  him  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  he  said : he  recollected  himself,  however,  at  the 
instant,  and  began  rallying  himself,  as  the  surest  means  of  preventing 
others  doing  so.  The  scene  was  too  painful  to  Amanda:  she  hastily 
withdrew  her  hand,  and  faintly  wishing  the  party  a-  good  night,  went 
out  to  the  maid,  who  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  lobby,  and  was  con 
ducted  to  lier  room.  She  dismissed  the  servant  at  the  door,  and 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEl. 


497 


throwing  herself  into  a chair,  availed  herself  of  solitude  to  give  vent 
to  the  tears,  whose  painful  suppression  had  so  long  tortured  her  heart. 
She  had  not  sat  long  in  this  situation,  when  she  heard  a gentle  tap  at 
the  door.  She  started,  and  believing  it  to  be  one  of  the  Miss 
Macqueens,  hastily  wiped  away  the  tears,  and  opened  the  door.  A 
female  stranger  appeared  at  it,  who,  curtsying  respectful’  7,  said, 
“Lady  Martha  Dormer,  her  Lady,  desired  to  see  Miss  Donald  for  a 
few  minutes,  if  not  inconvenient  to.  her.” 

“ See  me !”  repeated  Amanda,  with  the  utmost  surprise,  “ can  it  be 
possible !”  She  suddenly  checked  herself  and  said  “ she  would  attend 
her  ladyship  immediately.”  She  accordingly  followed  the  maid,  a 
variety  of  strange  ideas  crowding  upon  her  mind.  Her  conductress 
retired  as  she  shut  the  door  of  the  room  into  which  she  showed 
Amanda;  it  was  a small  anti-chamber  adjoining  the  apartment  Lady 
Martha  "was  to  lie  in.  Here  with  increasing  surprise  she  beheld  Lor?.l 
Mortimer  pacing  the  room  in  an  agitated  manner, — ^His  back  was  U 
the  door  as  she  entered,  but  he  turned  round  with  quickness, 
approached,  looked  on  her  for  a few  minutes,  then  striking  his  hand 
suddenly  against  his  forehead,  turned  from  her  with  an  air  of  distrac- 
tion. 

Lady  Martha,  who  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  room,  and  only 
bowed  as  Amanda  entered  it,  motioned  for  her  to  take  a chair,  a 
motion  Amanda  gladly  obeyed,  for  her  trembling  limbs  could  scarcely 
support  her. 

All  wms  silent  for  a few  minutes,  Lady  Martha  then  spoke  in  a 
grave  voice. — “ I should  not,  madam,  have  taken  the  liberty  of  send- 
ing for  you  at  this  hour,  but  that  I believed  so  favourable  an  opportu- 
nity would  not  again  have  occurred  of  speaking  to  you  on  a subject 
particularly  interesting  to  me — an  opportunity  which  has  so  unex- 
pectedly saved  me  the  trouble  of  trying  to  find  you  out,  and  the 
necessity  of  writing  to  you.” 

Lady  Martha  paused,  and  her  silence  was  not  interrupted  by 
Amanda. — “Last  summer,”  continued  Lady  Martha — again  she 
paused — the  throbbings  of  Amanda’s  heart  became  more  violent. 
“Last  summer,”  said  she  again,  “there  were  some  little  gifts  pre- 
sented to  you  by  Lord  Mortimer;  from  the  events  which  followed 
their  acceptance,  I must  presume  they  are  valueless  to  you  ; from  the 
events  about  taking  place  they  are  of  importance  elsewhere.”  Sha 
ceased,  but  Amanda  could  make  n©  reply. 


498 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


“ You  cannot  be  ignorant,”  said  Lady  !Martba,  -with,  sc  metliing  of 
severity  in  her  accent,  as  if  ofiended  by  the  silence  of  Amanda,  “ you 
cannot  be  ignorant,  I suppose,  that  it  is  the  picture  and  ring  I allude 
to ; the  latter  from  being  a family  one  of  particular  value,  I always 
destined  for  the  wife  of  Lord  Mortimer,  I therefore  claim  it  in  my 
own  name.  The  picture  I have  his  lordship’s  approbation  and 
authority  to  demand,  and  to  convince  you  I have,  indeed  if  such  a 
conviction  be  necessary,  have  prevailed  on  him  to  be  present  at  this 
conversation.” 

“ Mo,  madam,  such  a conviction  was  not  necessary,”  cried  Amanda 

—“I  should .”  She  could  utter  no  more  at  the  moment,  yet 

tried  to  suppress  the  agonizing  feelings  that  tumultuously  heaved  her 
bosom. 

“ If  not  convenient  to  restore  them  immediately,”  said  Lady  Martha^ 
“ I will  give  you  a direction  where  they  may  be  left  in  London,  to 
which  place  Mrs.  Macqueen  has  informed  me  you  are  going.” 

li  is  perfectly  convenient  now  to  restore  them,  madam,”  replied 
Amaiiib,  with  a voice  perfectly  recovered,  animated  with  conscious 
hinoconce  and  offended  pride,  which  also  gave  her  strength.  I shall 
return,'^  continued  she,  moving  to  the  door,  “^with  them  immediately 
to  your  . adyship.” 

The  picture  was  suspended  from  her  neck,  and  the  ring  in  its  case 
lay  in  he.  ‘ pocket ; but,  by  the  manner  in  which  they  had  been  asked, 
or  rathei  demanded  from  her,  she  felt,  amidst  the  anguish  of  her  soul, 
a sudden  miotion  of  pleasure  that  she  could  directly  give  them  back ; 
yet  wheL  in  her  own  room  she  hastily  untied  the  picture  from  her 
neck,  pm  cd  the  black  ribbon  from  it,  and  laid  it  in  its  case,  her 
grief  ovbicame  every  other  feeling,  and  a shower  of  tears  fell  from 
her — ‘‘Oil,  Mortimer!  dear  Mortimer!”  she  sighed,  “must  I part 
even  with  this  little  shadow?  must  I retain  no  vestige  of  happier 
hours ! Yet  why,  why  should  I wish  to  retain  it,  when  the  original 
will  so  soon  be  another’s  ? Yes,  if  I behold  Lord  Mortimer  again,  it 
will  be  as  the  husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia.” 

She  recollected  she  was  staying  b^ond  the  expected  time,  and 
wiped  away  her  tears : yet  still  she  lingered  a few  minutes  in  her 
chamber,  to  try  and  calm  her  agitation.  She  called  her  pride  to  her 
aid,  it  inspired  her  with  fortitude,  and  she  proceeded  to  Lady  Martha, 
determined  that  lady  should  see  nothing  in  her  manner  wiiich  sh/e 
could  possibly  construe  into  weakness  or  meanness. 


CHILD. HEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


499 


Never  did  sLe  appear  more  interesting  than  at  the  moment  she 
re-entered  the  apartment.  The  passion  she  had  called  to  her  aid  gave 
a bright  glow  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  traces  of  the  tears  she  had  been 
shedding,  appeared  upon  those  glowing  cheeks  like  dew  on  the  silken 
leaves  of  the  rose  ere  the  sunbeams  of  the  morning  have  exhaled  it. 
Those  tears  left  a humid  lustre  in  her  eyes,  even  more  interesting  than 
their  wonted  brilliancy. — Her  hair  hung  in  rich  and  unrestrained 
luxuriance,  for  she  had  thrown  off  her  hat  on  first  going  to  her 
chamber,  and  gave  to  the  beauty  of  her  face,  and  the  elegance  of  her 
form,  a complete  finishing. 

“ Here,  madam,  is  the  ring,”  cried  she,  presenting  it  to  Lady 
Martha,  ‘‘  and  here  is  the  picture,”  she  would  have  added,  but  her 
voice  faltered,  and  a tear  started  from  her  eye : determined  to  conceal 
if  possible,  lier  feelings,  she  hastily  dashed  away  the  pearly  fugitive. 
Lady  Martha  was  again  extending  her  hand,  when  Lord  Mortimer 
suddenly  started  from  a couch  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself,  and 
snatched  the  picture  from  the  trembling  hand  that  held  it,  pulled  it 
from  its  case,  and  flinging  it  on  the  floor  trampled  it  beneath  his 
feet: — “ Thus  perish,”  exclaimed  he,  “every  memento  of  my  attach- 
ment to  Amanda!  Oh!  wretched,  wretched  girl,”  cried  he,  suddenly 
grasping  her  hand,  and  as  suddenly  relinquishing  it.  “ Oh ! -wretched, 
wretched  girl,  you  have  undone  yourself  and  me!”  He  turned 
abruptly  away,  and  instantly  quitted  the  room.  Shocked  by  his 
words  and  terrified  by  Jiis  manner,  Amanda  had  just  power  to  gain 
a chair.  Lady  Martha  seemed  also  thunderstruck;  but  from  the 
musing  attitude  in  which  she  stood,  the  deep  convulsive  suffocating  sobs 
of  Amanda  soon  called  her. — She  went  to  her,  and  finding  her  unable 
to  help  herself,  loosened  her  cravat,  bathed  her  temples  with  .lavender, 
and  gave  her  water  to  drink.  Those  attentions  and  the  tears  she 
shed  revived  Amanda.  She  raised  herself  in  her  chair,  on  which 
she  had  fallen  back,  but  was  yet  too  much  agitated  to  stand. 

“Poor  unhappy  young  creature!”  said  Lady  Martha,  “I  pity  you 
from  my  soul.  Ah!  if  your  mind  resemb.ed  your  person,  what  a 
perfect  creature  had  you  been ! How  happy  had  then  been  my  poor 
Mortimer!” 

Now,  now  was  the  test,  the  shining  test  of  Amanda’s  virtue, 
agonized  by  knowing  she  had  lost  the  good  opinion  of  those  whom 
she  ioved  with  such  ardour,  esteemed  with  such  reverence.  She  knew 


^00 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


by  a few  words  slie  could  explain  the  appearances  which  had  deprived 
her  of  his  good  opinion,  and  fully  regain  it,  regain,  by  a few  words, 
the  love,  the  esteem  of  her  valued,  her  inestimable  Mortimer,  tlio 
affection,  the  protection  of  his  amiable  aunt  and  sister.  She  leaned 
her  head  upon  her  hand,  the  weight  on  her  bosom  became  less 
oppressive,  she  raised  her  head ; “ Of  my  innocence  I can  give  such 
proofs,”  cried  she — her  lips  closed,  a mortal  paleness  overspread  her 
face,  the  sound  of  suicide  seemed  piercing  through  her  ear,  she 
trembled,  the  solemn,  the  dreadful  declaration  Lord  Cherbury  had 
made  of  not  surviving  the  disclosure  of  his  secret,  her  promise  of 
inviolably  keeping  it,  both  rushed  upon  her  mind,  she  beheld  herself 
on  the  very  verge  of  a tremendous  precipice,  and  about  plunging  her- 
self and  a fellow-creature  into  it,  from  whence  at  the  tribunal  of  her 
God,  she  should  have  to  answer  for  accelerating  the  death  of  that 
fellow-creature  : and  is  it  by  a breach  of  faith!”  she  asked  herself: 
“ I hope  to  be  re-established  in  the  opinion  of  I.ord  Mortimer  and 
his  relations?  Ah!  mistaken  idea,  and  how  great  is  the  delusion 
passion  spreads  before  our  eyes,  even  if  their  esteem  could  thus  be 
regained ! Oh ! what  were  that,  or  what  the  esteem,  the  plaudits  of 
the  world,  if  those  of  my  own  heart  were  gone  forever  ? Oh ! never,” 
cried  she,  still  to  herself,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven,  “ oh ! never 
may  the  pang  of  self  reproach  be  added  to  those  which  now  oppress 
me!”  her  heart  at  the  moment  formed  a solemn  vow  never  by  any 
wilful  act  to  merit  such  a pang : “ And  oh ! my  God,”*  she  cried, 
“forgive  thy  v/eak  creature,  who,  assailed  by  strong  temptation, 
thought  for  a moment  of  wandering  from  the  path  of  truth  and 
integrity,  which  can  alone  conduct  her  to  the  region  where  peace  and 
immortal  glory  will  be  hers.” 

Amanda,  amidst  her  powerful  emotions,  forgot  that  she  was  observed, 
except  by  that  Being  to  whom  she  applied  for  pardon  and  future 
strength.  Lady  Martha  had  been  a silent  spectator  of  her  emotions, 
and,  thiiikiug  as  she  did  of  Amanda,  could  only  hope  they  proceeded 
from  contrition  for  her  past  conduct,  forcibly  awakened  by  reflection 
on  the  deprivations  it  had  caused  her. 

When  she  again  saw  Amanda  able  to  pay  attention  she  addressed 
her;  “I  said  I was  sorry  for  witnessing  your  distress,  I shall  not 
repeat  the  expression,  thinking  as  I now  do,  I hope  that  it  is  occasioned 
by  regret  for  past  errors ; the  tears  of  repentance  wash  away  the  staiiia 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


501 


of  gnilt,  and  that  heart  must  indeed  be  callous  which  the  sigh  of 
remorse  will  not  melt  to  pity.” — Amanda  turned  her  eyes  with 
earnestness  on  Lady  Martha,  as  she  spoke,  and  her  cheeks  were  again 
tinged  with  a faint  glow. 

“ Perhaps  I speak  too  plainly,”  cried  Lady  Martha,  witnessing  this 
glow  and  imputing  it  to  resentment,  “but  I have  ever  liked  the 
undisguished  language  of  sincerity.  It  gave  me  pleasure,”  she  conti- 
r ued,  “ to  hear  you  have  been  in  employment  at  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  but 
that  pleasure  was  destroyed  by  hearing  you  were  going  to  London, 
though  to  seek  your  brother,  Mrs.  Duncan  has  informed  Mrs.  Macqueen. 
If  this  were  indeed  the  motive,  there  are  means  of  inquiring  without 
taking  so  imprudent  a step.” 

“Imprudent!”  repeated  Amanda,  involuntarily. 

“Yes,”  cried  Lady  Martha,  “a  journey  so  long  without  a protector 
to  a young,  I must  add,  a lovely  woman,  teems  with  danger,  from 
which  a mind  of  delicacy  would  shrink  appalled.  If  indeed  you  go 
to' seek  your  brother,  and  he  regards  you  as  he  should,  he  would 
rather  have  you  neglect  him  (though  that  you  need  not  have  done  by 
staying  with  Mrs.  Duncan)  than  run  into  the  way  of  insults.  hTo 
emergency  in  life  should  lead  us  to  do  an  improper  thing,  as  trying  to 
])roduce  good  by  evil  is  impious,  so  trying  to  produce  pleasure 
by  imprudence  is  folly:  they  are  trials,  however  flattering  they 
may  commence,  which  are  sure  to  end  in  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment. 

“You  will,”  continued  Lady  Martha,  “if  indeed  - anxious  to  escape 
from  any  further  censure  than  whao  has  already  befallen  you,  return 
to  Mrs.  Duncan,  when  I inform  you,  (if  indeed  you  are  already  igno- 
lant  of  It)  that  Colonel  Belgrave  passed  this  road  about  a mouth  ago, 
on  his  way  from  a remote  part  of  Scotland  to  London, -where  he 
LOAV  is.” 

“I  cannot  help,”  said  Amanda,  “the  misconstructions  which  may 
be  put  on  my  actions ; I can  only  support  myself  under  the  pain  they 
irflict  by  conscious  rectitude. 

“ I am  shocked,  indeed,  at  the  surmises  entertained  about  me,  and 
fi  wretch  whom  my  soul  abhorred  from  the  moment  it  knew  its  real 
principles.” 

“ If,”  said  Lady  Martha,  “ your  journey  is  really  not  prompted  by 
the  intention  of  seeing  your  brother,  you  heighten  every  other  error 
by  duplicity.” 


502 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


‘‘  You  are  severe,  madam,”  exclaimed  Amanda,  in  whose  soul  the 
pride  of  injured  innocence  was  again  reviving. 

“ If  I probe  the  wound,”  cried  Lady  Martha,  I would  also  wish  to 
heal  it ; it  is  the  wish  I feei  of  saving  a young  creature  from  furthei 
error,  of  serving  the  being  once  so  valued  by  him  who  possesses  my 
first  regard,  that  makes  me  speak  as  I now  do.  Eetuin  to  Mrs, 
Duncan,  prove  in  one  instance  at  least,  you  do  not  deserve  suspicion; 
she  is  your  friend,  and  in  your  situation,  a friend  is  too  precious  a 
treasure  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  it  with  her:  as  she  lives  retired, 
there  will  he  little  danger  of  your  history  or  real  name  being  discov- 
ered, wliich  I am  sorry  you  dropped,  let  your  motive  for  doing  so  be 
what  it  may,  for  the  detection  of  one  deception  makes  us  suspect 
every  other.  Keturn,  I repeat,  to  Mrs.  Duncan’s,  and  if  you  want 
any  inquiries  made  about  your  brother,  dictate  them,  and  I will  take 
care  they  shall  be  made,  and  you  shall  know  the  result.”  Had 
Amanda’s  motive  for  a journey  to  London  been  only  to  seek  her 
brother,  she  would  gladly  have  accepted  of  this  offer : thus  avoid  the 
imputation  of  travelling  after  Bel  grave,  or  of  going  to  join  him,  the 
hazard  of  encountering  him  in  London,  and  the  dangers  of  so  long  a 
journey;  but  the  affair  of  the  will  required  expedition  and  her  own 
immediate  presence — an  affair  the  injunction  of  Lady  Dunreath  had 
prohibited  her  disclosing  to  any  one  who  could  not  immediately  for- 
ward it,  and  which,  if  such  an  injunction  never  existed,  she  could  not 
with  propriety  have  divulged  to  Lady  Martha,  who  was  so  soon  to  be 
connected  with  a family  so  materially  concerned  in  it,  and  in  whose 
favour,  on  account  of  her  nephew’s  connection  with  them,  it  was 
probable  she  might  be  biased. 

Amanda  hoped  and  believed,  that  in  a place  so  large  as  London, 
with  her  assumed  name,  (which  she  now  resolved  not  to  dr(^  till  in 
a more  secure  situation)  she  should  escape  Belgrave.  As  to  meeting 
him  on  the  road,  she  had  not  the  smallest  apprehension  concerning 
that,  naturally  concluding  that  he  never  would  have  taken  so  long  a 
journey  as  he  had  lately  done,  if  he  could  have  staid  but  a few  weeks 
away;  time,  she  trusted,  would  prove  the  falsity  of  the  inference, 
which  she  already  was  informed  would  be  drawn  from  her  perseverance 
in  her  journey.  She  told  Lady  Martha  that  she  thanked  her  for  her 
kind  offer,  but  must  decline  it,  as  the  line  of  conduct  she  had  marked 
out  for  herself  rendered  it  unnecessary,  whose  innocence  would  yet  be 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBETt 


503 


justified,  she  added.  Lady  Martha  shook  her  head ; the  consciousness 
of  having  excited  suspicions  which  she  could  not  justify,  had  indeed 
given  to  the  looks  of  Amanda  a confusion  when  she  spoke,  which 
confirmed  them  in  Lady  Martha’s  breast.  “I  am  sorry  for  your 
determination,”  said  she;  “but,  notwithstanding,  it  is  so  contrary  to 
my  ideas  of  what  is  right,  I cannot  let  you  depart  without  telling  you, 
that  should  you,  at  any  time,  want  or  require  services,  Avhich  you 
would  or  could  not  ask  from  strangers,  or  perhaps  expect  them  to 
perform,  acquaint  me,  and  command  mine:  yet  in  doing  justice  to  my 
own  feelings,  I must  not  do  injustice  to  the  noble  ones  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer; it  is  by  his  desire,  as  well  as  my  own  inclination,  I now  apeak 
to  you  in  this  manner,  though  past  events,  and  the  situation  he  is  about 
entering  into,  must  forever  preclude  his  personal  interference  in  your 
affiiirs.  He  could  never  hear  the  daughter  of  Captain  Fitzalan  suffered 
inconveniences  of  any  kind  without  wishing,  without  having  her 
indeed,  if  possible,  extricated  from  it.” 

“Oh!  madam,”  cried  Amanda,  unable  to  repress  her  gushing  tears, 
“ I am  already  well  acquainted  with  the  noble  feelings  of  Lord  Morti- 
mer, already  oppressed  with  a weight  of  obligations.”  Lady  Martlia 
was  affected  by  her  energy,  her  eyes  grew  humid,  and  her  voice  soft- 
ened. “Error  in  you  will  be  more  inexcusable  than  others,”  cried 
Lady  Martha,  “because  like  too  many  unhappy  creatures,  you  cannot 
plead  the  desertion  of  all  the  world : to  regret  past  errors,  he  they 
what  they  may,  is  to  insure  my  assistance  and  protection,  if  both  or 
either  are  at  any  time  required  by  you ; was  I even  gone,  I should 
take  care  to  leave  a substitute  behind  me,  who  should  fulfil  my  inten- 
tions towards  you,  and  by  doing  so,  at  once  soothe  and  gratify  the  feel- 
ings  of  Lord  Mortimer.” 

“ I thank  you,  madam,”  cried  Amanda,  rising  from  her  chair,  as  she 
wiped  away  her  tears,  summoning  all  her  fortitude  to  her  aid,  “ for 
the  interest  you  express  about  me ; the  time  may  yet  come,  perhaps, 
when  I shall  prove  I never  was  unworthy  of  exciting  it,  when  the 
notice  now  offered  from  compassion  may  he  tendered  from  esteem- 
then,”  continued  Amanda,  who  could  not  forbear  this  justice  to  herself 
“ the  pity  of  Lady  Martha  Dormer  will  not  humble  hut  exhalt  me. 
because  then  I shall  know  that  it  proceeds  from  that  generous  sympa- 
'tliy,  which  one  virtuous  mind  feels  for  another  in  distress.”  She 
moved  to  the  door.  “ How  lamentable,”  said  Lady  Martha,  “ to  have 
such  talents  misapplied!” 


504 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Ail!  madam,”  cried  Amanda,  stopping  and  turning  mournfully  to 
her,  "‘I  find  you  are  indexible.” 

Lady  Martha  shook  her  head,  and  Amanda  had  laid  her  hand  upon 
the  lock,  when  Lady  Martha  said  suddenly,  “there  were  letters 
passed  between  you  and  Lord  Mortimer.”  Amanda  bowed. 

“ They  had  better  be  mutually  returned,”  said  Lady  Martha.  “ Do 
you  seal  up  his,  and  send  them  to  Lord  Cherbury’s  house  in  London 
directed  to  me,  and  I pledge  myself  to  have  yours  returned.” 

“You  shall  be  obeyed,  madam,”  replied  Amanda,  in  a low  broken 
voice,  after  the  pause  of  a moment.  Lady  Martha  then  said  she 
would  no  longer  encroach  upon  her  rest,  and  she  retired. 

In  her  chamber  the  feelings  she  had  so  long,  so  painfully  tried 
to  suppress,  broke  forth  without  again  meeting  opposition ; the  pride 
which  had  given  her  transient  animation,  was  no  more,  for  as  past 
circumstances  arose  to  recollection,  she  could  not  wonder  at  her  being 
condemned  from  them.  She  no  longer  accused  Lady  Martha  in  her 
mind  of  severity,  no  longer  felt  offended  with  her ; but  oh ! Mortimer, 
the  bitter  tears  she  shed  feU  not  for  herself  alone,  she  wept  to  thiiik 
thy  destiny,  though  more  prosperous,  was  not  less  unhappy  than  her 
own,  for  in  thy  broken  accents,  thy  altered  looks,  she  perceived  a 
passion  strong  and  sincere  as  ever  for  her,  and  well  she  knew  Lady 
Euphrasia  not  calculated  to  soothe  a sad  heart,  or  steal  an  image  from 
it  which  corroded  its  felicity.  Best  after  the  incidents  of  the  evening 
was  not  to  be  thought  of,  but  nature  was  exhausted,  and  insensibly 
Amanda  sunk  upon  the  bed  in  a deep  sleep,  so  insensibly,  that  when 
she  awoke,  which  was  not  till  the  morning  was  pretty  far  advanced, 
she  Alt  surprised  at  her  situation ; she  felt  cold  and  unrefreshed  from 
having  lain  in  her  clothes  all  night,  and  when  she  went  to  adjust  her 
dress  at  the  glass,  was  surprised  with  the  pallidness  of  her  looks, 
anxious  to  escape  a second  painful  meeting,  she  went  to  the  window 
to  see  if  the  chaise  was  come,  but  was  disappointed  on  finding  that 
she. had  slept  at  the  back  of  the  house ; she  heard  no  noise,  and,  con- 
cluding the  family  had  not  yet  risen  after  the  amusements  of  the 
preceding  night,  *sat  down  by  the  window  which  looked  into  a 
spacious  garden,  above  which  rose  romantic  hills  that  formed  a 
screen  for  some  young  and  beautiful  plantations  that  lay  between 
them  and  the  garden ; but  the  misty  tops  of  the  hills,  the  varied  trees 
which  autumn  spread  over  the  plantations,  nor  the  neat  appearance 
of  the  garden  had  power  to  amuse  the  imagination  of  Amanda  I 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


605 


Her  patience  was  exhausted  after  sitting  some  time,  and  going  to  the 
door  she  softly  opened  it,  to  try  if  she  could  hear  any  one  stirring. 
She  had  not  long  stood,  when  the  sound  of  footsteps  and  voices  rose 
from  below. — She  instantly  quitted  her  room,  and  descended  the 
stairs  into  a small  hall,  across  which  was  a folding  door ; this  she 
gently  opened,  and  found  it  divided  the  hall  she  stood  in  from  one 
that  was  spacious  and  lofty,  and  which  her  passing  through  the  pre- 
ceding night  before  it  was  lighted  up,  had  prevented  her  taking 
notice  of;  here,  at  a long  table,  were  the  men  servants  belonging 
to  the  family  and  the  guests,  assembled  at  breakfast,  the  piper  at  the 
head,  like  the  king  of  the  feast.  Amanda  stepped  back  the  moment 
she  perceived  them,  well  knowing  Lord  Mortimer’s  servants  would 
recollect  her,  and  was  ascending  the  stairs  to  her  room  to  ring  for  one 
of  the  maids,  when  a servant  hastily  followed  her,  and  said  the  fami- 
ly were  already  in  the  breakfast  room;  at  the  same  moment  Mr. 
Colin  Macqueen  came  from  the  parlour  which  opened  in  the  little 
hall,  and  paying  Amanda,  in  a lively  and  affectionate  manner,  the 
compliments  of  the  morning,  he  led  her  to  the  parlour,  where  not 
only  all  the  family  guests  who  had  lain  in  the  house,  but  several  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  been  with  them  the  preceding  night,  were  assembled. 
— Doctor  Johnson  has  already  celebrated  a Scotch  breakfast,  nor  was 
the  one  at  which  Mrs.  Macqueen  and  her  fair  daughters  presided, 
inferior  to  any  he  had  seen ; besides  chocolate,  tea  and  coffee,  with 
the  usual  appendages,  there  were  rich  cakes,  choice  sweetmeats,  and 
a variety  of  cold  pastry,  with  ham  and  chickens,  to  which  several  of 
the  gentlemen  did  honour;  the  dishes  were  ornamented  with  sweet 
herb  and  wild  flowers,  gathered  about  the  feet  of  the  mountains  and 
in  the  valley,  and  by  every  guest  was  placed  a fine  bouquet  from  the 
green-house,  with  little  French  mottoes  on  love  and  friendship  about 
them,  which  being  opened  and  read,  added  to  the  mirth  of  the  com 
paiiy. 

“ I was  just  going  to  send  one  of  the  girls  for  you,”  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
queen, when  Amanda  had  taken  a place  at  the  table,  ‘‘  and  would  have 
done  so  before,  but  wished  you  to  get  as  much  rest  as  possible,  after 
your  fatiguing  journey.” 

“I  assure  you,  madam,”  said  Amanda,  ‘‘I  have  been  up  this  long 
time,  expecting  every  moment  a summons  to  the  chaise.” 

I took  care  of  that  last  night,”  said  Mrs.  Macqueen,  “ for  I was 

22 


506 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABDEY. 


(letermiued  you  should  not  depart  at  least  without  breakfasting. 
Amanda  was  seated  betv/een  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen  and  his  eldest 
sister,  and  sought  by  conversing  Avith  the  former,  for  the  latter  Avas 
too  much  engrossed  by  the  general  gaiety  to  pay  particular  attention 
to  any  one,  to  avoid  the  looks  she  dreaded  to  see : yet  tlie  sound  of 
Lord  Mortimer’s  voice  affected  her  as  much  almost  as  his  looks. 

Pray  Lady  Martha,”  said  the  second  Miss  Macqueen,  a lively, 
thoughtless  girl,  “will  your  ladyship  be  so  good  as  to  guarantee  a 
promise  Lord  Mortimer  has  just  made  me,  or  rather  I have  extorted 
from  him,  Avhich  is  the  cause  of  this  application  ?” 

“ You  must  first,  my  dear,”  answered  Lady  Martha,  “ let  me  knoAV 
what  the  promise  is.” 

“Why,  gloves  and  bridal  favours,  but  most  unwillingly  granted,  I 
can  assure  your  ladyship.”  Amanda  Avas  obliged  to  set  doAvn  the  cup 
she  Avas  raising  to  her  lips,  and  a glance  stole  involuntarily  from  her 
toAvards  Lord  Mortimer,  a glance  instantly  Avithdrawn  when  she  saAr 
his  eyes  in  the  same  direction.  “ I declare,”  continued  Miss  Phebj 
Macqueen,  “ I should  do  the  favour  all  due  honour.” 

“ I am  sure,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  attempting  to  speak  cheerfully 
“ your  acceptance  of  it  Avould  do  honour  to  the  presenter.” 

“ And  your  lordship  may  be  sure  too,”  said  one  of  her  brothers,  “it 
is  a favour  she  would  wish  Avith  all  her  heart  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  returning.” 

“ Oh ! in  that  she  would  not  be  singular,”  said  a gentleman. 

“ What  do  you  think.  Miss  Donald,”  cried  Colin  Macqueen,  turning 
to  Amanda,”  do  you  imagine  she  would  not  ?”  Amanda  could  scarcely 
speak ; she  tried,  however,  to  hide  her  agitation,  and  forcing  a faint 
smile,  with  a voice  nearly  as  faint,  said,  “ that  was  not  a fair  ques- 
tion.” The  Miss  Macqueens  took  upon  themselves  to  aiisAver  it,  and 
Amanda  through  their  means  Avas  relieved  from  farther  embarrass- 
ment. 

Breakfast  over,  Amanda  was  anxious  to  depart,  and  yet  AVvanted 
courage  to  be  the  first  to  move;  a charm  seemed  to  bind  her  to 
the  spot  where,  for  the  last  time,  she  should  behold  Lord  Mortimer,  at 
least  the  last  time  she  ever  expected  to  see  him  unmarried. 

Her  dread  of  being  late  on  the  road,  and  she  heard  the  destined 
stage  for  the  night  Avas  at  a great  distance,  at  last  conquered  her 
reluctance  to  move,  and  she  said  to  Mr.  Colin  Macqueen  it  was  tin:g 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEFe 


507 


for  Ler  to’ go.  At  that  moment  Lord  Mortimer  rose,  and  proposed  to 
tiie  young  Macqueens  going  with  them  to  see  the  new  plantations 
behind  tlie  house,  which  old  Mr.  Macqueen  had  expressed  a desire  his 
lordship  should  give  his  opinion  of. 

Ail  the  young  gentlemen,  as  well  as  the  Macqueens,  Colin  excepted, 
attended  his  lordship,  nor  did  they  depart  without  wushing  Amanda 
a pleasant  journey.  ' 

Silent  and  sad  she  continued  in  her  chair  for  some  minutes  after 
they  quitted  the  room,  forgetful  of  her  situation,  till  the  loud  laugh 
of  the  Miss  Macqueens  restored  her  to  a recollection  of  it.  She 
blushed,  and  rising  hastily,  was  proceeding  to  pay  her  farewell  com- 
pliments, when  Mrs.  Macqueen  rising  drew  her  to  the  window,  and 
in  a low  voice  repeated  her  request  for  Amanda’s  company  a few 
days.  This  Amanda  again  declined,  but  gratefully  expressed  her 
thanks  for  it,  and  the  hospitality  slie  had  experienced.  Mrs.  Macqueen 
said,  on  her  return  to  Scotland,  she  hoped  to  be  more  successful.  She 
also  added,  that  some  of  her  boys  and  girls  would  gladly  have  accom- 
panied Amanda  a few  miles  on  her  way,  had  they  not  all  agreed  ere 
her  arrival  to  escort  Lord  Mortimer’s  party  to  an  inn  at  no  great  dis- 
tance, and  take  an  early  dinner  with  them.  She  should  write  that 
day,  she  said,  to  Mrs.  Duncan,  and  thank  her  for  having  introduced 
to  her  family  a person  whose  acquaintance  was  an  acquisition. 
Amanda  liaving  received  the  affectionate  ideas  of  this  amiable  woman 
and  her  daughters,  curtseyed,  though  with  downcast  looks  to  Lady 
Martha  and  Lady  Araminta,  who  returned  her  salutation  with  cool- 
ness. 

Followed  by  two  of  the  Miss  Macqueens,  she  hurried  through 
the  hall,  from  which  the  servants  and  their  breakfast  things  were 
already  removed  : but  how  was  she  distressed  when  the  first  object 
she  saw  outside  the  door  was  Lord  Mortimer,  by  whom  stood  Colin 
Macqueen,  who  had  left  the  parlour  to  see  if  the  chaise  was  ready, 
and  one  of  his  brothers  ; hastily  would  she  have  stepped  forward  to 
the  chaise,  had  not  the  gallantry  of  the  young  men  impeded  her  way: 
they  expressed  sorrow  at  her  not  staying  longer  amongst  them,  and 
hopes  on  her  return  she  would. 

“Pray  my  lord,”  cried  the  Miss  Macqueens  (while  their  brc^thera 
were  thus  addressing  Amanda)  ‘‘  pray  my  lord,”  almost  in  the  same 
breath.  what  have  you  done  with  the  gentlemen  ?” 


508 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


‘‘You  should  ask  your  brother,”  he  replied ; “ he  has  locked  them 
up  in  the  plantation  a frolic  was  at  all  times  pleasing  to  the  light- 
hearted Macqueens,  and  to  enjoy  the  present  one,  off  they  ran  directly, 
followed  by  their  brothers,  all  calling  as  they  ran  to  Amanda  not  to 
stir  till  they  came  back,  which  would  be  in  a few  minutes ; but 
Amanda,  from  the  awkward,  the  agitating  situation  in  which  they 
left  her,  would  instantly  have  relieved  herself,  could  she  have  made 
the  postillion  hear  her;  but,  as  if  enjoying  the  race,  he  had  gone  to 
some-  distance  to  view  it,  and  none  of  the  servants  of  the  house  were 
near:  ^-cmscious  of  her  emotions,  she  feared  betraying  them,  and 
stepped  a few  yards  from  the  door,  pretending  to  be  engrossed  by  the 
Macqueens  ; a heavy  sigh  suddenly  pierced  her  ear.  “ Amanda,”  in 
the  next  moment  said  a voice  to  which  her  heart  vibrated.  She 
turned  with  involuntary  quickness,  and  saw  Lord  Mortimer  close  by 
her. 

“Amanda,”  he  repeated;  then  suddenly  clasping  his  hands 
together,  exclaimed,  with  an  agonizing  expression,  while  he  turned 
abruptly  from  her : “Gracious  Heaven ! what  a situation ! Amanda,” 
.said  he  again,  looking  at  her,  “ the  scene  which  happened  last  night 
was  distressing.  I am  now  sorry  on  your  account  that  it  took  place, 
notwithstanding  past  events  I bear  you  no  ill  will ; the  knowledge  of 
your- uneasiness  would  give  me  pain;  from  my  heart  I forgive  you 
all  that  you  have  caused,  that  you  have  entailed  upon  me ; at  this 
moment  I could  take  you  to  my  arms,  and  weep  over  you,  like  a fond 
mother  over  the  lost  darling  of  her  hopes,  tears  - of  pity  and  forgive- 
ness.” 

Amanda,  unutterably  affected,  covered  her  face  to  hide  the  tears 
which  bedewed  it. 

“ Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing,”  continued  Lord  Mortimer, 
“ that  you  forgive  the  uneasiness  and  pain  I might  have  occasioned 
you  last  night.” 

“ Forgive!”  repeated  Amanda,  “Oh!  my  lord,”  and  her  voice  sunk 
in  the  sobs  which  heaved  her  bosom.  “ Could  I think  you  were, 
j^ou  would  be  happy.”  Lord  Mortimer  stopt,  overcome  by  strong 
emotions. 

“Happy!”  repeated  Amanda,  “Oh!  never — never,”  continued 
she,  raising  her  straining  eyes  to  heaven,  “oh!  never—- never  in  this 
world!” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


509 


At  this  moment  the  Macqueens  were  not  only  heard  hut  seen  run- 
ning hack,  followed  by  the  gentlemen  whom  they  had  been  prevailed 
on  to  liberate.  Shocked  at  the  idea  of  being  seen  in  such  a situation, 
Amanda  would  have  called  the  postillion ; but  he  was  too  far  off  to 
hear  her  weak  voice,  had  she  then  even  been  able  to  exert  that  voice. 
She  looked  towards  him,  however,  with  an  expression  which  denoted 
the  feelings  of  her  soul. — Lord  Mortimer,  sensible  of  those  feelings, 
hastily  pulled  open  the  door  of  the  chaise,  and  taking  the  cold  and 
trembling  hand  of  Amanda,  with  one  equally  cold  and  trembling, 
assisted  her  into  the  chaise,  then  pressing  the  hand  he  held  between 
both  his,  he  suddenly  let  it  drop  from  him,  and  closing  the  door 
without  again  looking  at  Amanda,  called  to  the  didver,  who  instantly 
obeyed  the  call,  and  had  mounted  ere  the  Macqueens  arrived.  Oh  ( 
what  a contrast  did  their  looks,  blooming  with  health  and  exercise, 
their  gaiety,  their  protected  situation,  form  to  the  wan,  dejected, 
desolate  Amanda.  With  looks  of  surprise  they  were  going  up  to  the 
chaise,  when  Lord  Mortimer  still  standing  by  it,  and  anxious  to  save 
his  unhappy,  lost  Amanda,  the  pain  of  being  noticed  in  such  agitation, 
gave  the  man  a signal  to  drive  off,  which  was  instantly  obeyed. 

Thus  did  Amanda  leave  the  mansion  of  the  Macqueens,  where 
sorrow  had  scarcely  ever  before  entered  without  meeting  alleviation, 
a mansion,  where  the  stranger,  the  wayfaring  man  and  the  needy, 
were  sure  of  a welcome,  cordial  as  benevolence  and  hospitality  could 
give,  and  where  happiness,  as  pure  as  in  this  sublunary  state  can  be 
experienced,  was  enjoyed.  As  she  drove  from  the  door,  she  saw  the 
splendid  equipages  of  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lady  Martha  driving  to  it. 
She  turned  from  them  with  a sigh,  at  reflecting  they  would  soon 
grace  the  bridal  pomp  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  She  pursued  the  remain- 
der of  her  journey  without  meeting  anything  worthy  of  relation.  It 
was  in  the  evening  she  reached  London.  The  moment  she  stepped 
at  the  hotel  she  sent  for  a carriage,  and  proceeded  in  it  to  Mrs.  Con- 
nere  in  Bond-street. 


biO 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  4BBEY. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Dissembling  hope,  her  cloudy  front  she  clears, 

And  a false  vigour  in  her  eye  ajipears. 

Dryden. 

She  aliglited  from  the  carriage  when  it  stopped  at  the  doc*r,  ard 
entered  the  shop,  where,  to  her  inexpressible  satisfaction,  the  first 
object  she  beheld  was  Miss  Rushhrook,  sitting  pensively  at  one  of  the 
counters.  The  moment  she  saw  Amanda  she  recollected  her,  and 
starting  up,  exclaimed,  as  she  took  her  hand,  Ah ! dear  madam, 
this  is  indeed  a joyful  surprise! — Ah!  how  often  have  I wished  to 
meet  you  again  to  express  my  gratitude.”  The  aifectionate  reception 
she  met,  and  the  unexpected  sight  of  Miss  Rushhrook,  seemed  to 
promise  Amanda,  that  her  wdshes  relative  to  Rushhrook  would  not 
only  he  accelerated,  hut  crowned  with  success.  She  returned  the 
fervent  pressure  of  Miss  Rushhrook’s  hand,  and  inquired  after  her 
parents:  the  inquiry  appeared  distressing,  and  she  was  answered 
with  hesitation,  that  they  were  indifferent;  the  evident  embarrass- 
ment her  question  excited,  prevented  her  renewing  it  at  this  time. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  was  not  present,  and  Amanda  requested  if 
she  was  within,  she  might  see  her  directly.  Miss  Rushhrook  imme- 
diately stepped  to  a parlour  behind  the  shop,  and  almost  instantly 
returned  followed  by  the  lady  herself,  who  was  a little  fat  Irish 
woman  past  her  prime,  hut  not  past  her  relish  for  the  good  things  of 
this  life  : “ Dear  madam,”  said  she,  courtesying  to  Amanda,  “ you  are 
very  welcome ; I protest  I am  very  glad  to  see  you,  though  I never 
had  that  pleasure  hut  once  before ; hut  it  is  no  wonder  I should  ho 
so,  for  I have  heard  your  praises  every  day  since,  I am  sure,  from 
that  young  lady,”  looking  at  Miss  Rushhrook.  Amanda  bowed,  hut 
her  heart  was  too  full  of  the  purpose  of  this  visit  to  allow  her  to 
speak  about  anything  else.  She  was  just  come  from  the  country,  she 
told  Mrs.  Connel,  where  (she  sighed  as  she  spoke)  she  had  left  hei 
friends,  and,  being  unwilling  to  go  amongst  total  strangers,  she  had 
come  to  her  house  in  hopes  of  being  able  to  procure  lodgings  in  it. 

“ Dear  ma’am,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  I protest  I should  have  been 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


611 


happy  to  have  accommodated  you,  but  at  present  my  house  is  quite 
full.’’ 

The  disappointment  this  speech  gave  Amanda  rendered  her  silent 
for  a moment,  and  she  was  then  going  to  ask  Mrs.  Connel  if  she  could 
recommend  her  to  a lodging,  when  she  perceived  Miss  Eushbrook 
whispering  her.  “ Why,  madam,”  cried  the  former,  who  by  a nod  of 
her  head  seemed  to  approve  of  what  the  latter  had  been  saying, 
“since  you  dislike  so  much  going  amongst  strangers,  which  indeed 
shows  your  prudence,  considering  what  queer  kind  of  people  are  in 
. the  world,  Miss  Emily  says,  that  if  you  condescend  to  accept  a part 
of  her  little  bed,  till  you  can  settle  yourself  a little  more  comfortably 
in  town,  you  shall  be  extremely  welcome  to  it ; and  I can  assure  you, 
madam,  I shall  do  every  thing  in  my  power  to  render  my  house 
agreeable  to  you.” 

“ Oh ! most  joyfully,  most  thankfully,  do  I accept  the  offer,”  said 
Amanda,  whose  heart  had  sunk  at  the  idea  of  going  amongst 
strangers. — “Any  place,”  she  continued,  speaking  in  the  fulness  of 
that  agitated  heart,  “ beneath  so  reputable  a roof,  would  be  an  asylum 
of'  comfort  I should  prefer  to  a palace,  if  utterly  unacquainted  with 
the  people  who  inhabited  it.”  Her  Hunk  was  now  brought  in,  and 
the  carriage  discharged ; “ I suppose,  ma’am,”  said  Mrs.  Connel, 
looking  at  the  trunk  on  which  her  assumed  name  was  marked,  “ you 
are  Scotch  by  your  name,  though  indeed  you  have  not  much  of  the 
accent  about  you.” 

“ I declare,”  cried  Emily,  also  looking  at  it,  “ till  this  moment  I 
was  ignorant  of  your  name.” 

Amanda  was  pleased  to  hear  this,  and  resolved  not  to  disclose  her 
real  one,  except  convinced  Eushbrook  would  interest  himself  in  her 
affairs.  She  was  conducted  into  the  parlour,  which  was  neatly 
furnished,  and  opened  into  a shop  by  a glass  door.  Mrs.  Connel 
stirred  a declining  fire  into  a cheerful  blaze,  and  desired  to  know  if 
Amanda  would  choose  any  thing  for  dinner.  “ Speak  the  word  only, 
my  dear,”  said  she,  “ and  I think  I can  procure  you  a cold  bone  in 
the  house.  If  you  had  come  two  hours  sooner,  I could  have  given 
you  a nice  bit  of  veal  for  your  dinner.” — Amanda  assured  her  she  did 
not  wish  to  take  any  thing  till  tea-time. 

“Well,  well,”  cried  Mrs.  Connel,  “you  shall  have  a snug  cup  of  tea 
by  ecA  by,  and  a hot  muffin  with  it.  I am  very  fond  of  tea  myself, 


512 


CHILDREIT  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


though  poor  Mr.  Connel,  who  is  dead  and  gone,  used  often  and  often 
to  say,  I that  was  so  nervous  should  neyer  touch  tea;  but,  Biddy^ 
he  would  say,  and  he  would  laugh  so,  poor  dear  man,  you  and  all 
your  sex  are  like  your  mother  Eve,  unable  to  resist  temptation.” 

Emily  retired  soon  after  Amanda  entered ; but  returned  in  a few 
minutes  with  her  hat  and  cloak  on,  and  said,  ‘‘  nothing  but  a visit  sho 
must  pay  her  parents  should  have  induced  her  to  forego,  for  the  first 
evening  at  least,  the  pleasure  of  Miss  Donald’s  society.” 

Amanda  thanked  her  for  her  politeness,  but  assured  her,  if  consider- 
ed as  a restraint,  she  would  be  unhappy. 

“I  assure  you,”  said  Mrs.  Connei,  as  Emily  departed,  “ she  is  very 
fend  of  you.” 

“I  am  happy  to  hear  it,”  replied  Amanda,  ‘‘for  I think  her  a most 
amiable  girl.” 

“ Indeed  she  is,”  cried  the  other,  “ all  the  fault  I find  with  her,  is 
being  too  grave  for  her  time  of  life. — ^Poor  thing,  one  cannot  wonder 
at  that  however,  considering  the  situation  of  her  parents.” 

“ I hope,”  interrupted  Amanda,  “ it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  was.” 

“ Bad ! Lord,  it  cannot  be  worse ; the  poor  captain  has  been  in  gao. 
above  a year.” 

“ I am  sorry,”  said  Amanda,  “ to  hear  this ; has  any  application 
been  made  to  Lady  Greystock  since  his  confinement  ?” 

“ To  Lady  Greystock ! why.  Lord,  one  might  as  well  apply  to  one 
of  the  wild  beasts  in  the  Tower.  Ah ! poor  gentleman,  if  he  was 
never  to  get  nothing  but  what  she  gave  him,  I believe  he  would  not 
long  be  a trouble  to  any  one.  It  is  now  about  fourteen  years  since 
my  acquaintance  with  him  first  commenced.  My  poor  husband,  that 
is  no  more,  and  I kept  a shop  in  Dublin,  where  the  captain’s  regi- 
ment was  quartered,  and  he  being  only  a lieutenant,  had  not  room 
enough  for  his  family  in  the  barracks,  so  he  took  lodgings  at  our 
house,  where  Mrs.  Eushbrook  lay  in,  and  I being  with  her  now  and 
then  during  her  confinement,  a kind  o/  friendship  grew  amongst  us. 
They  had  not  left  us  long  to  go  to  America,  when  a relation  of  my 
husband’s  who  owned  this  house  and  shop,  having  lost  his  wife,  and 
being  lonesome  without  either  chick  or  child,  invited  us  to  come  and 
live  with  him,  promising  us  if  we  did  to  settle  us  in  his  business,  and 
leave  us  every  thing  he  had.  Well,  such  offers  did  not  come  every 
day,  so  to  bo  sure  we  took  him  at  his  word,  and  here  we  had  not 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


513 


long  been  when  the  poor  man  bid  adieu  to  all  mortal  care,  and  was 
soon  followed  by  Mr.  Oonnel.  Well,  to  be  sure,  I was  sad  and 
solitary  enough : but  when  I thought  how  irreligious  it  was  to  break 
one’s  heart  with  grief,  I plucked  up  my  spirits,  and  began  to  hold  up 
my  head  again ; so  to  make  a short  story  of  a long  one,  about  six 
years  ago,  Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  Miss  Emily  came  one  day  into  the 
shop  to  buy  something,  little  thinking  they  should  see  an  old  friend ; 
it  was  to  be  sure  a meeting  of  joy  and  sorrow  as  one  may  say,  wo 
told  all  our  griefs  to  each  other,  and  I found  things  were  very  bad 
with  the  poor  captain ; indeed  I have  a great  regard  for  him  and  his 
family,  and  when  he  was  confined  I took  Emily  home  as  an  assistant 
in  my  business ; the  money  she  earned  was  to  go  to  her  parents,  and 
I agreed  to  give  her  clothes  gratis : but  that  would  have  gone  a little 
way  in  feeding  so  many  months,  had  I not  procured  plain  work  for 
Mrs.  Rushbrook  and  her  daughters.  Emily  is  a very  good  girl 
indeed,  and  it  is  to  see  her  parents  she  is  now  gone ; but  while  I am 
gabbling  away  I am  sure  the  kettle  is  boiling:”  so  saying  she  started 
up,  and  ringing  the  bell,  took  the  tea-things  from  the  beaufet  where 
they  were  kept;  the  maid  having  obeyed  the  well-known  summons, 
then  retired,  and  as  soon  as  the  tea  was  made,  and  the  muffins 
buttered,  Mrs.  Oonnel  made  Amanda  draw  her  chair  close  to  the 
table,  that  she  might,  as  she  said,  look  snug,  and  drink  her  tea 
comfortably. 

“ I assure  you,  ma’am,”  cried  she,  “ it  was  a lucky  hour  for  l^lhs 
Emily  when  she  entered  my  house.” 

‘‘  I have  no  doubt  of  that,”  said  Amanda. 

“You  must  know,  madam,”  proceeded  Mrs.  Oonnel,  “about 'a 
month  ago  a gentleman  came  to  lodge  with  me,  who  I soon  found 
was  making  speeches  to  Miss  Emily ; he  was  one  of  those  wild-looking 
sparks  who,  like  Ranger  in  the  play,  look  as  if  they  would  be  popping 
through  every  one’s  doors  and  windows,  and  playing  such  tricks,  as 
made  poor  Mr.  Strickland  so  jealous  of  his  wife.  Well,  I took  my 
gentleman  to  task  one'  day  unawares ; so  Mr.  Sipthorpe,”  says  I,  “ 1 
am  told  you  have  cast  a sheep’s  eye  upon  one  of  my  girls,  but  I must 
tell  you  she  is  a girl  of  virtue  and  family,  so  if  you  do  not  mean  to 
deal  honorably  with  her,  you  must  either  decamp  from  this,  or  speak 
to  her  no  more.  Upon  this  he  made  me  a speech  as  long  as  a member 

parliment  upon  a new  tax.  Lord ! Mr.  Sipthorpe,”  says  I,  “ there 
22* 


514 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


is  no  occasion  for  all  tins  oratory,  a few  words  will  settle  the  hiisiness 
between  us.  Well,  this  was  coming  close  to  the  point  you  will  say, 
and  he  told  me  then  he  always  meant  to  deal  honourably  by  Miss 
Emily,  and  told  me  all  about  his  circumstances,  and  I found  he  had  a 
fine  fortune,  which  indeed  I partly  guessed  before,  from  the  appear- 
ance he  made,  and  he  said  he  would  not  only  marry  Miss  Emily,  but 
take  her  parents  out  of  prison,  and  provide  for  the  whole  family. 
Well,  now  comes  the  provoking  part  of  my  story.  A young  clergy- 
man had  been  kind  at  the  beginning  of  their  distress,  to  them,  and 
he  and  Miss  Emily,  took  it  into  their  heads  to  fall  in  love  with  each 
other.  Well,  her  parents  gave  their  consent  to  their  being  married, 
which  to  be  sure  I thought  a very  foolish  thing,  knowing  the  young 
man’s  inability  to  serve  them.  To  be  sure  he  promised  fair  enough ; 
but  Lord ! what  could  a poor  curate  do  for  them,  particularly  when 
he  got  a wife  and  house  full  of  children  of  his  own,  I thougiit  ? so  I 
supposed  they  would  be  quite  glad  to  be  off  with  him,  and  to  give 
her  to  Mr.  Sipthorpe:  but  no  such  thing  I assure  you.  When  I 
mentioned  it  to  them,  one  talked  of  honour,  and  another  of  grati- 
tude, and  as  to  Miss  Emily,  she  fairly  went  into  fits.  Well,  I thought 
I would  serve  them  in  spite  of  themselves,  so,  knowing  the  curate  to 
be  a romantic  young  fellow,  I writes  off  to  him,  and  tells  him  what 
a cruel  thing  it  would  be,  if,  for  his  own  gratification,  he  kept  Miss 
Emily  to  her  word,  and  made  her  lose  a match,  which  would  free  her 
family  from  all  their  difficulties,  and  in  short,  I touched  up  his 
passions  not  a little,  I assure  you ; and,  as  I hoped,  a letter  came  from 
him,  in  which  he  told  her  he  gave  her  up.  Well,  to  be  sure,  there 
was  yad  work  when  it  came ; with  her  I mean,  for  the  captain  and 
his  wife  were  glad  enough  of  it,  I believe,  in  their  hearts ; so  at  last 
ivery  thing  was  settled  for  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  and  he 
made  a number  of  handsome  presents  to  her,  I assure  3^011,  and  they 
are  to  be  married  in  a few  days.  He  is  only  wafting  for  his  rents  in 
the  country  to  take  the  captain  out  of  prison : but  here  is  Miss  Emily, 
instead  of  being  quite  merry  and  joyful,  is  as  dull  and  as  melancholy 
as  if  she  was  going  to  be  married  to  a frightful  old  man.” 

“ Consider,”  said  Amanda,  ‘‘you  have  just  said  her  heart  was  pro- 
Dngaged.” 

“Lord!”  cried  Mrs.  Oonnel,  “a  girl  at  her  time  of  life  cai! 
cliango  her  love  as  her  cap.” 


.CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


615 


•*I  sincerely  hope,”  exclaimed  Amanda,  “that  she  either  has  or 
may  soon  be  able  to  transfer  hers.” 

“ And  now,  pray,  madam,”  cried  Mrs.  Oonnel,  with  a look  whicn 
seemed  to  say  Amanda  should  be  as  communicative  as  she  had  been, 
‘‘  may  I ask  from  whence  you  have  travelled  ?” 

“ From  a remote  part  of  Scotland.” 

“ Dear,  what  a long  journey ! — ^Lord ! they  say  that  it  is  a very 
desolate  place,  ma’am,  without  never  a tree  nor  a bush  in  it.” 

“ I assure  you  that  it  wants  neither  shade  nor  verdure,”  replied 
Amanda.  “Keally;  well.  Lord,  what  lies  some  people  tell!  Pray, 
ma’am,  may  I ask  what  country-woman  you  are  ?” 

“Welch,”  said  Amanda.  “Keally!  well,  I suppose,  ma’am,  3'ou 
nave  had  many  a scramble  up  the  mountain  after  the  goats,  which 
they  say  are  marvellous  plenty  in  that  part  of  the  world.” 

“ IST o indeed,”  replied  Amanda.  “ Are  you  come  to  make  any  long 
stay  in  London,  ma’am?”  “I  have  not  determined.”  “I  suppose 
you  have  come  about  a little  business,  ma’am  ?”  resumed  Mrs.  Oonnel. 
“ Yes,”  replied  Amanda.  “ To  be  sure,  not  an  affair  of  great  conse- 
quence, or  so  young  a lady  would  not  have  undertaken  it.”  Amanda 
smiled,  but  made  no  reply,  and  was  at  length  relieved  from  these 
tiresome  and  inquisitive  questions  by  Mrs.  Oonnel’s  calling  in  ho? 
girls  to  tea;  after  which  she  washed  the  tea  things,  put  them  into  the 
beaufet,  and  left  the  room  to  order  something  for  supper.  Left  to 
herself,  Amanda  reflected  that  at  the  present  juncture  of  Rushbrook’s 
affairs,  when  his  attention  and  time  were  engrossed  by  the  approach- 
ing settlement  of  his  daughter,  an  application  to  him  on  her  account 
would  be  not  only  impertinent  but  unavailing ; she  therefore  deter- 
mined to  wait  till  the  hurry  and  agitation  produced  by  such  an  event 
had  subsided,  and  most  sincerely  did  she  hope  that  it  might  be  pro- 
ductive of  felicity  to  all.  Mrs.  Oonnel  was  not  long  absent,  and 
Emily  returned  almost  at  the  moment  she  re-entered  the  room. 
“Well,  Miss,”  said  Mrs.  Oonnel,  addressing  her  ere  she  had  time  to 
’ipeak  to  Amanda,  “I  have  been  telling  your  good  friend  here  all 
about  your  affairs.” 

“Have  you,  ma’am?”  cried  Emily,  with  a faint  smile,  and  a 
dejected  voice.  Amanda  looked  earnestly  in  her  face  and  saw  an 
expression  of  the  deepest  sadness  in  it.  From  her  own  heart  she 
Teadily  imagined  what  her  feelings  must  be  at  such  a disappointment 


515 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


as  Mrs.  Connel  liad  mentioned,  and  felt  the  sincerest  jjity  for  her, 
Mrs.  Connel’s  volubility  tormented  them  both ; supper  happily  termi- 
nated it,  as  she  was  then  much  better  employed  in  her  own  opinion^ 
than  she  could  possibly  have  been  in  talking.  Amanda  pleaded 
fatigue  for  retiring  early.  Mrs.  Connel  advised  her  to  try  a few 
glasses  of  wine  as  a restorative ; but  she  begged  to  be  excused,  and 
allowed  to  retire  with  Emily.  The  chamber  was  small,  but  neat,  and 
enlivened  by  a good  fire,  to  which  Amanda  and  Emily  sat  down 
while  undressing.  The  latter  eagerly  availed  herself  of  this  opportu- 
nity to  express  the  gratitude  of  her  heart.  Amanda  tried  to  change 
the  discourse,  but  could  not  succeed.  “Long,  madam,”  continued 
Emily,  “ have  we  wished  to  return  our  thanks  for  a benefaction  so 
delicately  conveyed  as  yours,  and  happy  were  my  parents  to-night, 
when  I informed  them  I could  now  express  their  grateful  feel- 
ings.” 

“Though  interested  exceedingly  in  your  affairs,”  said  Amanda, 
making  another  effort  to  change  the  discourse,  “ be  assured  I never 
should  have  taken  the  liberty  of  inquiring  minutely  into  them ; and  I 
mention  this  lest  you  might  suppose,  from  what  Mrs.  Connel  said, 
that  I had  done  so.” 

“ Mo,  madam,”  replied  Emily,  “ I had  no  such  idea,  and  an  inquiry 
from  you  would  be  rather  pleasing  than  otherwise,  because  I should 
then  flatter  myself  you  might  be  induced  to  listen  to  griefs  which  have 
long  wanted  the  consolation  of  sympathy — ^such,  I am  sure,  as  they 
would  receive  from  you.” 

“Happy  should  I be,”  cried  Amanda,  “had  I the  power  of  alle\ia- 
ting  them.” 

“ Oh ! madam,  you  have  the  power,”  said  Emily,  “ for  you  would 
commiserate  them,  and  commiseration  fi*om  you  would  be  a balm  to 
my  heart;  you  would  strengthen  me  in  my  duties,  you  would  instruct 
me  in  resignation ; but  I am  selfish  in  desiring  to  intrude  them  on  you.” 

“Mo,”  replied  Amanda,  taking  her  hand ; “ you  flatter  me  by  such 
a desire”’ 

“ Then  madam,  whilst  you  are  undressing,  I will  give  mysOf  tiie 
melancholy  indulgence  of  relating  my  little  story.” 

Amanda  bowed,  and  Emily  thus  began. 


CHILDREN  O.Y  THE  ABBEY. 


617 


CHAPTER  LI. 

Take  heed,  take  heed,  thou  lovely  maid, 

Nor  be  by  glittering  ills  betray’d. 

open  our  hearts  to  those  we  know  will  commiserate  out 
sorrows,  is  the  sweetest  consolation  those  sorrows  can  receive:  to 
yon,  then,  madam,  I divulge  mine,  sure  at  least  of  pity.  At  the  time 
I first  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  you,  the  little  credit  my  father  had 
was  exhausted,  and  his  inability  to  pay  being  well  known,  he  was 
arrested  one  evening  as  he  sat  by  the  hed-side  of  my  almost  expiring 
mother!  I will  not  pain  your  gentle  nature  by  dwelling  on  the 
horrors  of  that  moment,  on  the  agonies  of  a parent,  and  a husband 
torn  from  a family  so  situated  as  was  my  father’s ; feeble,  emaciated, 
without  even  sufficient  clothing  to  guard  him  from  the  inclemency  of 
the  weather,  he  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  one  of  the  bailifiPs,  as  ho 
turned  his  eyes  from  that  wife  he  never  more  expected  to  behold. 
She  fainted  at  the  moment  he  left  the  room,  and  it  was  many  minutes 
ere  I had  power  to  approach  her.  The  long  continuance  of  her  fit 
at  length  recalled  my  distracted  thoughts : but  I had  no  restoratives 
to  apply,  no  assistance  to  recover  her,  for  my  eldest  brother  had 
followed  my  father,  and  the  rest  of  the  children,  terrified  by  the 
scene  they  had  witnessed,  wept  together  in  a corner  of  the  room.  I 
had  at  last  recollected  a lady  who  lived  nearly  opposite  to  us,  and 
from  whom  I hoped  to  procure  some  relief  for  her ; nothing  but  the 
present  emergency  could  have  made  me  apply  to  her,  for  the  atten- 
tion she  had  paid  us  on  first  coming  to  Mr.  Heathfield’s,  was  entirely 
withdrawn  after  his  death.  Pride,  however,  was  forgotten  at  the 
present  moment,  and  I flew  to  the  house.  The  servant  showed  me 
into  a parlour,  where  she,  her  daughters,  and  a young  clergyman  I 
had  never  before  seen,  were  sitting  at  tea.  I could  not  bring  myself 
to  mention  my  distress  before  a stranger,  and  accordingly  begged  to 
speak  to  her  in  another  room ; but  she  told  me,  in  a blunt  manner,  I 
Tiight  speak  there.  In  a low  and  faltering  voice,  which  sighs  and 
tears  often  impeded,  I acquainted  her  of  what  had  happened,  the 
situation  of  my  mother,  and  requested  a cordial  for  her.  How  great 
was  my  confusion  when  she  declared  aloud  all  I had  told  her,  and 


618 


CHILDREN  Oy  THE  ABBET. 


turning,  to  her  daughter,  hid  her  give  me  part  of  a bottle  of  '^^ine. 
“Ay,  ay,”  cried  she,  “I  always  thought  things  would  turn  out  so; 
it  was  really  very  foolish  of  Mr.  Heathfield  to  bring  you  to  his  house, 
and  lead  you  all  into  such  expenses  I”  I listened  to  no  more,  hut 
taking  the  wine,  with  a silent  pang  retired. 

I had  not  been  many  minutes  returned,  and  was  kneeling  by  the 
bed-side  of  my  mother,  who  began  to  show  some  symptoms  of  return- 
ing life,  when  a gentle  knock  came  to  the  hall  door ; I supposed  it 
my  brother,  and  bid  one  of  the  children  fly  to  open  it.  What  was  my 
surprise  when  in  a few  minutes  she  returned,  followed  by  the  young 
clergyman  I had  just  seen ! I started  from  my  kneeling  posture,  and 
my  looks  expressed  my  wonder.  He  approached,  and,  in  the  soft 
accent  of  benevolence,  apologized  for  his  intrusion : but  said,  he  came 
with  a hope  and  wish  that  he  might  be  serviceable.  Oh!  how 
soothing  were  his  words ! oh  1 how  painfully  pleasing  the  voice  of 
tenderness  to  the  wretched  1 The  tears  which  pride  and  indignation 
had  suspended  but  a few  minutes  before,  again  began  flowing. 

“ But  I will  not  dwell  upon  my  feelings ; suffice  it  to  say,  that 
every  attention  which  could  mitigate  my  wretchedness  he  paid,  and 
that  his  efforts,  aided  by  mine,  soon  restored  my  mother.  His  looks, 
his  manner,  his  profession  all  conspired  to  calm  her  spirits,  and  she 
blessed  the  power  which  so  unexpectedly  gave  us  a friend.  My 
brother  returned  from  my  father  merely  to  inquire  how  wo  were,  and 
to  go  back  to  him  directly.  The  stranger  requested  permission  to 
accompany  him!  a request  most  pleasing  to  us,  as  we  trusted  hia 
soothing  attention  would  have  the  same  effect  upon  his  sorrowing 
heart  as  it  had  upon  ours.  Scarcely  had  he  gone  ere  a man  arrived 
from  the  neighbouring  hotel  with  a basket  loaded  with  wine  and 
provisions ; but  to  enumerate  every  instance  of  this  young  man’s 
goodness  would  be  encroaching  upon  your  patience,  in  short,  by  his 
care  my  mother  in  a' few  days  was  able  to  be  carried  to  my  father’s 
prison.  Mrs.  Connel,  who  on  the  first  intimation  of  our  distress,  had 
come  to  us,  took  me  into  her  house  at  a stated  salary,  which  was  to 
be  given  to  my  parents,  and  the  rest  of  the  children  were  to  continue 
with  them.  My  mother  desired  me  one  evening  to  take  a walk  av ith 
the  children  to  Kensington,  as  she  thought  them  injured  by  constant 
confinement.  'Our  friend  attended  us,  and  in  our  way  thither 
informed  me  that  he  must  soon  leave  town,  as  he  was  but  a country 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


519 


cnrate  and  his  leave  of  absence  from  his  rector  was  exi)ired ; it  was 
above  a month  since  we  had  known  him,  during  which  time  liis  atten- 
tions were  unremitted,  and  he  was  a source  of  comfort  to  us  all.  A 
sudden  chill  came  over  my  heart  as  he  spoke,  and  every  sorrow  at  that 
moment  seemed  aggravated.  On  entering  Kensington  gardens,  I seated 
myself  on  a little  rising  mount,  for  I felt  trembling  and  fatigued,  and 
he  sat  beside  me.  Kever  had  I before  felt  so  oppressed,  and  my  tears 
gushed  forth  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  restrain  them.  Something  I 
said  of  their  being  occasioned  by  the  recollection  of  the  period  when 
my  parents  enjoyed  the  charming  scene  I now  contemplated  along 
with  me.  “Would  to  heaven,”  cried  he,  “I  could  restore  them  to 
the  enjoyment  of  it !” 

“Ah!”  smd  I,  “they  already  lie  under  unreturnable  obligations  to 
you ; in  losing  you,”  added  I,  involuntarily,  “ they  will  lose  their 
only  comfort.” 

“ Since  then,”  cried  he,  “ you  flatter  me  by  saying  it  is  in  my 
power  to  give  them  comfort,  oh ! let  them  have  a constant  claim 
upon  me  for  it.  Oh  ! Emily,”  he  continued,  taking  my  hand,  “ let 
them  be  my  parents  as  well  as  yours ; then  will  their  too  scrupulous 
delicacy  be  conquered,  and  they  will  receive  as  a right  what  they 
now  consider  as  a favour.”  I felt  my  cheek  glow  with  blushes,  but 
still  did  not  perfectly  conceive  his  meaning.  “My  destiny  is 
humble  ” he  continued  : “ was  it  otherwise,  I should  long  since  have 
entreated  you  to  share  it  with  me ; could  you  be  prevailed  on  to  do 
so,  you  would  give  it  pleasures  it  never  yet  experienced,”  He 
paused  for  a reply,  but  I was  unable  to  give  him  one. 

“ Ah,  madam,  how  little  necessity  either  was  there  for  one ! my 
looks,  my  confusion,  betrayed  my  feelings.  He  urged  me  to  speak, 
and  at  last  I acknowledged  I should  not  hesitate  to  share  his  destiny, 
but  for  my  parents,  who  by  such  a measure  would  lose  my  assistance. 
“ Oh,  do  not  think,”  cried  he,  “ I would  ever  wish  to  tempt  you  into 
any  situation  which  should  make  you  neglect  them,”  He  then  pro- 
ceeded to  say,  “ that  though  unable  at  present,  to  liberate  them,  yet 
he  trusted,  that,  if  they  consented  to  our  union,  he  should,  by  econ- 
omy, be  enabled  to  contribute  more  essentially  to  their  support  than 
T could  do,  and  also  be  able  in  a short  time  to  discharge  their  debts.” 
His  proposals  were  made  known  to  them,  and  met  their  warmest 
apprebation.  The  pleasure  they  derived  from  them  was  more  on  my 


52(i  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

account  tlian  their  own,  as  the  idea  of  having  me  so  settled  removed 
a weiglit  of  anxiety  from  their  minds ; some  of  my  brothers  and  sis- 
ters should  live  with  us,  he  said,  and  promised  my  time  should  bo 
chiefly  spent  in  doing  fine  works,  which  should  he  sent  to  Mrs.  Con- 
nel  to  dispose  of  for  my  parents,  and  also  that  from  time  to  time,  I 
should  visit  them,  till  I had  the  power  of  bringing  them  to  my  cottage, 
for  such  he  described  his  residence. 

lie  was  compelled  to  go  to  the  country,  but  it  was  settled  he  should 
return  in  a short  time,  and  have  every  thing  finally  settled.  In 
about  a week  after  his  departure,  as  I was  returning  one  moring  from 
a lady’s,  where  I had  been  on  a message  from  Mrs.  Connel,  a gentle- 
man joined  me  in  the  street,  and,  with  a rude  familiarit}^,  endeavoured 
to  enter  into  conversation  with  me.  I endeavoured  to  shake  him  off, 
but  could  not  succeed,  and  hastened  home  with  the  utmost  expedition, 
whither  I saw  he  followed  me.  I thought  no  more  of  the  incident  till, 
about  two  days  after,  I saw  him  enter  the  shop,  and  heard  him 
inquire  of  Mrs.  Connel  about  her  lodgings,  which  to  my  great  morti- 
fication he  immediately  took,  for  I could  not  help  suspecting  he  had 
some  improper  motive  for  taking  them.  I resolved,  however,  if  such 
a motive  really  existed,  to  disappoint  it  by  keeping  out  of  his  way : 
but  all  my  vigilance  was  unavailing,  he  was  continually  on  the  watch 
for  me,  and  I could  not  go  up  or  down  stairs  without  being  insulted 
by  him.  I at  length  informed  Mrs.  Connel  of  his  conduct,  and 
entreated  her  to  fulfil  the  sacred  trust  her  friends  reposed  in  her 
when  they  gave  me  to  her  care,  by  terminating  the  insults  of  Mr. 
Sipthorpe — Alas!  could  I have  possibly  foreseen  the  consequences 
that  would  have  followed  my  application  to  her,  I should  have  borno 
those  insults  in  silence.  She  has  already  informed  you  of  them.  Oh ! 
madam,  when  the  letter  came,  which  dissolved  a promise  so  cheer- 
fully, so  fondly  given,  every  prospect  of  felicity  was  in  a moment 
overshadoAved ! For  a long  time  I resisted  every  effort  that  was 
made  to  prevail  on  me  to  marry  Sipthorpe,  but  when  at  last  my 
mother  said  she  was  sorry  to  find  my  feelings  less  than  his,  who  had 
generously  resigned  me  that  my  father  might  be  extricated  from  his 
difficulties,  I shrunk  Avith  agony  at  the  rebuke.  I Avondered,  I Avas 
shocked,  hoAv  I could  have  -so  long  hesitated  to  open  the  prison  gates 
of  my  father,  and  determined  from  that  moment  to  sacrifice  myself 
for  him ; for  oh  1 Miss  Donald,  it  is  a sacrifice  of  the  most  dreadful 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


521 


nature  I am  about  making.  Sipthorpe  is  a mai:  I never  could  have 
liked,  had  my  heart  even  been  disengaged.” 

Amanda  felt  the  truest  pity  for  her  young  friend,  who  ended  her 
narrative  in  tears ; but  she  did  not,  by  yielding  entirely  to  that  pity 
(as  too  many  girls,  with  tender  hearts  but  weak  heads  might  have  done) 
heighten  the  sorrow  of  Miss.  Kushbrook.  She  proved  her  friendship 
and  sympathy  more  sincerely  than  she  could  have  done  by  mere 
expressions  of  condolement,  which  feed  the  grief  they  commis- 
erate, in  trying  to  reconcile  her  to  a destiny  that  seemed 
irrevocable ; she  pointed  out  the  claims  a parent  had  upon 
a child,  and  dwelt  upon  the  delight  sa  child  experienced  when  con- 
scious of  fulfilling  those  claims.  She  spoke  of  the  rapture  attending 
the  triumph  of  reason  and  humanity  over  self  and  passion,  and  men- 
tioned the  silent  plaudits  of  the  heart  as  superior  to  all  gratification, 
or  external  advantages.  She  spoke  from  the  real  feelings  of  her  soul, 
she  recollected  the  period  at  which,  to  a father’s  admonition,  she  had 
resigned  a lover,  and  had  that  father  been  in  Captain  Eushbrook’s 
situation,  and  the  same  sacrifice  been  demanded  from  her,  as  from 
Emily,  she  felt  without  hesitation,  she  would  have  made  it.  She  was 
Indeed  a monitress  that  had  practised,  and  w^ould  practise  (was  there  a 
necessity  for  so  doing)  the  lessons  she  gave,  not  as  poor  Ophelia  says, 

Like  some  ungracious  pastors, 

Who  show  the  steep  and  thorny  path  to  heay’n, 

But  take  the  primrose  one  themselves. 

The  sweet  consciousness  of  this  gave  energy  and  more  than  usual 
eloquence  to  her  language ; but,  whilst  she  wished  to  inspire  her 
young  friend,  she  felt  from  the  tenderness  of  lier  nature,  and  the  sad 
situation  of  her  own  heart,  what  the  friend  must  feel  from  disap- 
pointed affection  and  a reluctant  union.  Scarcely  could  she  refrain 
from  weeping  over  a fate  so  wretched,  and  which  she  was  tempted 
to  think  as  dreadful  as  her  own ; but  a little  reflection  soon  con- 
vinced her  she  had  the  sad  pre-eminence  of  misery,  for  in  her  fate, 
there  were  none  of  these  alleviations  as  in  Emily’s,  which  she  was 
convinced,  must,  in  some  degree,  reconcile  her  to  it ; her  sufferings, 
unlike  Emily’s,  would  not  be  rewarded  by  knowing  that  they  con- 
tributed to  the  comfort  of  those  dearest  to  her  heart. 

“Your  words,  my  dear  madam,”  said  Emily,  “have  calmed  my 
spirits ; henceforth  I will  be  more  resolute  in  trying  to  banish  regrets 
from  my  mind ; but  I have  been  inconsiderate  to  a degree  in  keeping 


522  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

58 

^ou  SO  long  from  rest  after  your  fatiguing  journey.”  Amanda  indeed 
appeared  at  this  moment  nearly  exhausted,  and  gladly  hastened  to 
bed.  Her  slumbers  were  short  and  unrefreshing;  the  cares  which 
clung  to  her  heart  when  waking,  were  equally  oppressive  whilst 
sleeping.  Lord  Mortimer  mingled  in  the  meditations  of  the  morning, 
in  the  visions  of  the  nfght,  and  when  she  awoke  she  found  her  pillow 
wet  with  the  tears  she  had  shed  on  his  account.  Emily  was  already 
up,  but  on  Amanda’s  drawing  back  the  curtain,  she  laid  down  the 
book  she  was  reading,  and  came  to  her.  She  saw  she  looked 
extremely  ill,  and  imputing  this  to  fatigue,  requested  she  would 
breakfast  in  bed  ; but  Amanda,  who  knew  her  illness  proceeded 
from  a cause  which  neither  rest  nor  assiduous  care  could  cure, 
refused  complying  with  this  request,  and  immediately  dressed  her- 
self. As  she  stood  at  the  toilet,  Emily  suddenly  exclaimed,  “ if  you 
have  a mind  to  see  Sipthorpe,  I will  show  him  to  you  now,  for  he 
is  just  going  out.”  Amanda  went  to  the  window,  which  Emily 
gently  opened ; but,  oh  ! what  was  the  shock  of  that  moment,  when 
in  Sipthorpe,  she  recognized  the  insidious  Belgrave!  A shivering 
horror  ran  through  her  veins,  and  recoiling  a few  paces,  she  sunk 
half-fainting  on  a chair.  Emily,  terrified  by  her  appearance,  was 
flying  to  the  bell  to  ring  for  assistance,  when,  by  a faint  motion  of 
her  hand,  Amanda  prevented  her.  “ I shall  soon  be  better,”  said  she, 
speaking  with  difficulty ; “ but  I will  lie  down  on  the  bed  for  a few 
minutes,  and  I beg  you  may  go  to  your  breakfast.”  Emily  refused  to 
go,  and  entreated  that,  instead  of  leaving  her,  she  might  have  break 
fast  brought  up  for  them  both.  Amanda  assured  her  she  could  take 
nothing  at  present,  and  wished  for  quiet : Emily  therefore  reluctantly 
left  her.  Amanda  now  endeavoured  to  compose  her  distracted 
thoughts,  and  quiet  the  throbbings  of  her  agonized  heart,  that  she 
might  be  able  to  arrange  some  i3lan  for  extricating  herself  from 
her  present  situation,  which  appeared  replete  with  every  danger,  to 
her  imagination ; for  from  the  libertine  principles  of  Belgrave,  she 
could  not  hope  that  a new  object  of  pursuit  would  detach  him  from 
her,  when  he  found  her  so  unexpectedly  thrown  in  his  way ; unpro- 
tected as  she  was,  she  could  not  think  of  openly  avowing  her  know- 
ledge of  Belgrave ; to  discover  his  baseness  required  therefore  caution 
and  deliberation,  lest,  in  saving  Emily  from  the  snare  spread  for  her 
destruction,  she  should  entangle  herself  in  it ; to  declare  at  once  his 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


523 


real  character  must  betray  her  to  him,  and  though  she  might  banish 
him  from  the  liouse,  yet,  unsupported  as  she  was  by  friends  or 
kindred,  unable  to  procure  the  protection  of  Eushbrook,  in  his 
present  situation,  however  willing  he  might  be  to  extend  it,  she  trem- 
bled to  think  of  the  dangers  to  which,  by  thus  discovering,  she 
might  expose  herself,  dangers  which  the  deep  treachery  and  daring 
effrontery  of  Belgrave  would,  in  all  probability,  prevent  her  escaping. 
As  the  safest  measure,  she  resolved  on  quitting  the  house  in  the 
course  of  the  day ; but  without  giving  an  intimation  that  she  meant 
not  to  return  to  it.  She  recollected  a place  where  there  was  a proba- 
bility of  her  getting  lodgings,  which  would  be  at  once  secret  and 
secure  ; and  by  an  anonymous  letter  to  Captain  Eushbrook,  she 
intended  to  acquaint  him  of  his  daughter’s  danger,  and  refer  him  to 
Sir  Charles  Bingley,  at  whose  agent’s  he  could  receive  intelligence 
of  him,  for  the  truth  of  what  she  said.  Her  plan  concerted,  she 
grew  more  composed,  and  was  able,  when  Emily  entered  the  room 
with  her  breakfast,  to  ask,  in  a seeming  careless  manner,  “ when  Mr. 
Sipthorpe  was  expected  back  ?” 

“ It  is  very  uncertain,  indeed,”  answered  she. 

“ I must  go  out  in  the  course  of  the  day,”  said  Amanda,  ‘‘  about 
particular  business ; I may,  therefore,  as  well  prepare  myself  at  once 
for  it.”  She  accordingly  put  on  her  habit,  and  requested  materials 
for  writing  from  Emily,  which  were  immediately  brought,  and  Emily 
then  retired  till  she  had  written  her  letter.  Amanda,  left  to  herself, 
hastily  unlocked  her  little  trunk,  and  taking  from  thence  two  changes 
of  linen,  and  the  wiU  and  narrative  of  Lady  Dunreath,  she  deposited 
the  two  former  in  her  pocket,  and  the  two  latter  in  her  bosom,  then 
sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Captain  Eushbrook : 

“ A person  who  esteems  the  character  of  Captain  Eushbrook,  and 
the  amiable  simplicity  of  his  daughter,  cautions  him  to  guard  that 
simplicity  against  the  danger  which  now  threatens  it,  from  a wretch, 
who,  under  the  sacred  semblance  of  virtue,  designs  to  fix  a sharper 
sting  in  the  bosom  of  affliction  than  adversity  ever  yet  implanted. 
The  worth  of  Sipthorpe  is  not  more  fictitious  than  his  name ; his  real 
one  is  Belgrave;  his  hand  is  already  another’s;  and  his  character  for 
many  years  past,  marked  with  instances  of  deceit,  if  not  equal,  at 
least  little  inferior  to  the  present.  For  the  truth  of  these  assertions, 
the  writer  of  this  letter  refers  Captain  Eushbrook  to  Sir  Charles 
Bingley,  of regiment,  from  whose  agent  a direction  may  be  pro- 

cured to  him,  certain,  from  his  honour  and  sensibility,  he  will  eagerly 


524 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


step  forward  to  save  worth  and  innocence  from  woe  and  destrnC' 
tion/’ 

Amanda’s  anxiety  about  Emily  being  equal  to  what  she  felt  for 
herself,  she  resolved  to  leave  this  letter,  at  Rushbrook’s  prison,  lest 
any  accident  should  happen  if  it  went  by  other  hands.  She  was 
anxious  to  be  gone,  but  thought  it  better  to  wait  till  towards  even- 
ing, when  there  would  be  the  least  chance  of  meeting  Belgrave,  who, 
at  that  time,  would  probably  be  fixed  in  some  place  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day.  Emily  returned  in  about  an  hour,  and  finding  Amanda 
disengaged,  requested  permission  to  sit  with  her.  Amanda,  in  her 
present  agitation,  would  have  preferred  solitude,  but  could  not 
decline  the  company  of  the  affectionate  girl,  who,  in  conversing  with 
her,  sought  to  forget  the  heavy  cares  which  the  dreadful  idea  of  an 
union  with  Sipthorpe  had  drawn  upon  her.  Amanda  listened  with  a 
beating  heart  to  every  sound,  but  no  intimation  of  Belgrave’s  return 
reached  her  ears.  At  length  they  were  summoned  to  dinner,  but 
Amanda  could  not  think  of  going  to  it,  lest  she  should  be  seen  by 
him.  To  avoid  this  risk,  and  also  the  particularity  of  a refusal,  she 
determined  immediately  to  go  out,  and  having  told  Emily  her  inten- 
tion, they  both  descended  the  stairs  together.  Emily  pressed  her 
exceedingly  to  stay  for  dinner,  but  she  positively  refused,  and  left  the 
house  with  a beating  heart,  without  having  answered  Emily’s  ques- 
tion, who  desired  to  know  if  she  would  not  soon  return.  Thus  per- 
petually threatened  with  danger,  like  a frightened  bird,  again  was  she 
to  seek  a shelter  for  her  innocent  head.  She  walked  with  quickness 
to  Oxford  street,  where  she  directly  procured  a carriage,  but  was  so 
weak  and  agitated,  the  coachman  was  almost  obliged  to  lift  her  into 
it.  She  directed  it  to  the  prison,  and  on  reaching  it,  sent  for  one  of 
the  turnkeys,  to  whom  she  gave  her  letter  for  Rushbrook,  with  a 
particular  charge  to  deliver  it  immediately  to  him.  She  then  ordered 
the  carriage  to  Pall-Mall,  where  it  may  be  remembered  she  had  once 
lodged  with  Lady  Greystock.  This  was  the  only  lodging-house  in 
London  she  knew,  and  in  it  she  expected  no  satisfaction  but  what 
would  be  derived  from  thinking  herself  safe,  as  its  mistress  was  a 
woman  of  a most  unpleasant  temper.  She  had  once  been  in  affiuent 
circumstances,  and  the  remembrance  of  those  circumstances  soured 
her  temper,  and  rendered  her,  if  not  incapable  of  enjoying,  at  least 
unwilling  to  acknowledge  the  blessings  she  yet  possessed;  on  any 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


525 


one  in  lier  power  she  vented  her  spleen.  Her  chief  pursuit  vas  the 
gratification  of  a most  insatiate  curiosity,  and  her  first  delight, 
relating  the  affairs,  good  or  bad,  which  that  curiosity  dived  into. 
Amanda,  finding  she  was  at  home,  dismissed  the  coach,  and  was 
shown  by  the  maid  into  the  back  parlour,  where  she  sat.  “Oh, 
dear!”  cried  she,  with  a supercilious  smile,  the  moment  Amanda 
entered,  without  rising  from  her  chair  to  return  her  salute,  “when 
did  you  return  to  London,  and  pray,  may  I ask,  what  brought  you 
back  to  it?” 

Amanda  was  now  convinced,  from  Mrs.  Hansard’s  altered  manner, 
who  had  once  been  servile  to  a degree  to  her,  that  she  was  perfectly 
acquainted  with  her  destitute  condition,  and  a heavy  sigh  burst  from 
her  heart  at  the  idea  of  associating  with  a woman,  who  had  the 
meanness  to  treat  her  ill  because  of  that  condition.  A chillness 
crept  through  her  frame  when  she  reflected  that  her  sad  situation 
might  long  compel  her  to  this. — Sick,  weary,  exhausted,  she  sunk 
into  a chair,  which  she  had  neither  been  offered  nor  desired  to  take. 

“Well,  Miss,  and  pray  what  is  your  business  in  town?”  again  asked 
Mrs.  Hansard,  with  an  increased  degree  of  pertness. 

“My  business,  madam,”  replied  Amanda,  “can  be  of  no  consequence 
to  a person  not  connected  with  me.  My  business  with  you  is  to 
know  whether  you  can  accommodate  me  with  lodgings.”  “Keally; 
well,  you  might  have  paid  me  the  compliment  of  saying  you  would 
have  called  at  any  rate  to  know  how  I did. — You  may  guess  how 
greatly  flattered  a humble  being  like  me  would  be  by  the  notice  of  so 
amiable  a young  lady.” 

These  words  were  pronounced  with  a kind  of  sneer,  that,  by 
rousing  the  pride  of  Amanda,  a little  revived  her  spirits.  “I  should 
be  glad,  madam,”  said  she,  with  a composed  voice,  while  a faint 
glow  stole  over  her  cheek,  “to  know  whether  you  can,  or  choose  to 
accommodate  me  with  lodgings?” 

“Lord!  my  dear,”  replied  Mrs.  Hansard,  “do  not  be  in  such  a 
wondrous  hurry : take  a cup  of  tea  with  me,  and  then  we  will  settle 
about  that  business.” — These  words  implied  that  she  would  comply 
with  the  wish  of  Amanda,  and  however  disagreeaDle  the  asylum,  yet 
to  have  secured  one  cheered  her  sinking  heart. — Tea  was  soon  made, 
which,  to  Amanda,  who  had  touched  nothing  since  breakfast,  and 
but  little  then,  would  have  been  a pleasant  refreshment  had  she  not 


520 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


been  tormented  and  fatigued  with  the  questions  of  Mrs.  Hansard, 
who  laid  a thousand  baits  to  betray  her  into  a full  confession  of  what 
had  brought  her  to  London. — Amanda,  though  a stranger  in  herself 
to  every  species  of  art,  from  fatal  experience  was  aware  of  it  in 
others,  and  therefore  guarded  her  secret.  Mrs.  Hansard,  w^ho  loved 
what  she  called  a gossiping  cup  of  tea,  sat  a tedious  time  over  the 
tea-table.  Amanda  at  last,  mortified  and  alarmed  by  some  expressions 
which  dropped  from  her,  again  ventured  to  ask  if  she  could  be  lodged 
under  her  roof. 

‘‘Are  you  -really  serious  in  that  question?”  said  Mrs.  Hansard. 
There  was  a certain  expression  of  contempt  in  her  features  as  slie 
spoke,  which  shocked  Amanda  so  much,  that  she  had  not  power  to 
reply;  “because  if  you  are  my  dear,”  continued  Mrs.  Hansard,  “you 
have  more  assurance  than  I thought  you  possessed  of,  though  I 
always  gave  you  credit  for  a pretty  large  share.  Do  you  think  I 
would  ruin  my  house,  which  lodges  people  of  the  first  rank  and 
character,  by  admitting  you  into  it;  you  who,  it  is  well  known, 
obtained  Lady  Greystock’s  protection  from  charity,  and  lost  it  through 
misconduct?  Poor  lady,  I had  the  whole  story  from  her  own  mouth. 
She  sufiered  well  by  having  anything  to  say  to  you.  I always  guessed 
ho  w it  would  be : notwithstanding  your  demure  look,  I saw  well  enough 
how  it  would  turn  out.  I assure  you,  to  use  your  own  words,  if  I 
could  accommodate  you  in  my  house,  it  would  not  answer  you  at  all, 
or  there  are  no  convenient  closets  in  it,  in  which  a lady  of  your  dis- 
position might  now  and  then  want  to  hide  a smart  young  fellow.  1 
advise  you,  if  you  have  had  a tiflp  with  any  of  your  friends,  to  make 
up  the  difference,  though,  indeed,  if  you  did  not,  in  such  a place  as 
London,  you  can  never  be  at  a loss  for  such  friends.  Perhaps  you 
are  now  beginning  to  repent  of  your  evil  courses,  and  if  I took  you 
into  my  house,  I should  suffer  as  much  in  my  pocket,  I suppose,  as  in 
my  character.” 

The  terrified  and  distressed  look  with  which  Amanda  listened  to 
this  speech  would  have  stopped  Mrs.  Hansard  in  the  middle  of  it,  had 
she  possessed  a spark  of  humanity,  even  if  she  believed  her  (which 
was  not  the  case)  guilty ; but  lost  to  the  noble,  the  gentle  feelings  of 
humanity,  she  exulted  in  the  triumph  of  malice,  and  rejoiced  to  havo 
an  opportunity  of  piercing  the  panting  heart  of  helpless  innocence 
with  the  sharp  dart  of  insult  and  unmerited  rej>roach.  Amidst  tlio 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


527 


various  tliocks  Amanda  had  experienced  in  the  short  hut  eventful 
course  of  lier  life,  one  greater  than  the  present  she  had  never  felt; 
petrified  by  Mrs.  Hansard’s  -words  it  was  some  tinie  ere  she  had 
power  to  speak.  “Gracious  heaven!”  exclaimed  she,  looking  up  to 
that  heaven  she  addressed,  and  which  she  now  considered  her  only 
refuge  from  evil,  “ to  what  trials  am  I continually  exposed  ? Perse- 
cuted, insulted,  shocked  1 oh ! what  happiness  to  lay  my  feeble 
frame,  my  woe-struck  heart,  within  that  low  asylum,  where  malice 
could  no  more  annoy,  deceit  no  more  betray  me ! I am  happy,”  she 
continued,  starting  up,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Hansard,,  “that  the 
accommodation  I desired  in  this  house  you  refused  me,  for  I am  now 
well  convinced,  from  my  knowledge  of  your  disposition,  that  the 
security  my  situation  requires  I should  not  have  found  within  it.” — • 
She  hastily  quitted  the  room,  but  on  entering  the  hall  her  spirits 
entirely  forsook  her,  at  the  dreadful  idea  of  having  no  home  to  go  to ; 
overcome  with  horror,  she  sunk  into  tears  upon  one  of  the  hall  chairs. 
A maid,  who  had  probably  been  listening  to  her  mistress’s  conversa- 
tion, now  came  down  from  a front  parlour,  and  as  Mrs.  Hansard  had 
shut  the  door  after  Amanda,  addressed  her  without  fear  of  being 
overhead. — “ Bless  me ! Miss,”  said  she,  “ are  you  crying  ? Why, 
Lord ! surely  you  will  not  mind  what  old  blowsey  in  the  parlour 
says  ? I promise  you,  if  we  minded  her,  we  should  have  red  eyes^ 
here  every  day  in  the  week.  Ho,  pray.  Miss,  tell  me  if  I can  be  of 
any  service  to  you.” 

Amanda,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  thanked  her,  and  said,  “ in 
a few  minutes  she  should  be  better  able  to  speak.”  To  seek  lodgings 
at  this  late  hour  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  except  she  wished  to  run 
into  the  very  dangers  she  had  wanted  to  avoid,  and  Mrs.  Connel’s 
house  returned  to  her  recollection,  as  the  impossibility  of  procuring  a 
refuge  in  any  other  was  confirmed  in  her  mind  ; she  began  to  think 
it  would  not  be  so  dangerous  as  her  fears  in  the  morning  had  repre- 
sented it  to  be ; ere  this  she  thought  Belgrave  (for  since  the  delivery 
of  the  letter  there  had  been  time  enough  for  such  a proceeding) 
might  be  banished  from  it ; if  not,  she  had  a chance  of  concealing 
herself,  and,  even  if  discovered,  she  believed  Mrs.  Connel  would  pro- 
tect her  from  his  open  insults,  whilst  she  trusted  her  own  precaution 
would,  under  heaven,  defeat  his  secret  schemes,  should  he  again  con< 
trivo  any ; she  therefore  resolved,  or  rather  necessity  compelled  h.er, 


528  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

for,  could  she  have  avoided  it,  she  would  not  have  done  so,  to  retam 
to  Ml'S.  Connells ; she  accordingly  requested  the  maid  to  procure  her 
a carriage,  and  rewarded  her  for  her  trouble.  As  she  was  returning 
to  Mrs.  Connel’s,  she  endeavoured  to  calm  her  spirits,  and  quell  her 
apprehensions. — When  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  maid  appeared, 
she  could  scarcely  prevent  herself  ere  she  alighted,  from  inquiring 
whether  any  one  but  the  family  was  within ; conscious,  however, 
that  such  a question  might  create  suspicions,  and  that  suspicions 
would  naturally  excite  inquiries,  she  checked  herself,  and  re-entered, 
though  with  trembling  limbs,  that  house  from  whence  in  the  morning 
she  had  fled  with  such  terror. 


GHAPTEK  LII. 

Why,  thou  poor  mourner,  in  what  baleful  corner 
Hast  thou  been  talkiitg  with  that  witch,  the  night. 

On  what  cold  stone  hast  thou  been  stretched  along. 

Gathering  the  grumbling  winds  about  thy  head, 

To  mix  with  theirs  the  accents  of  thy  woes  ? 

Otway. 

A.MANDA*  had  not  reached  the  parlour  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Mrs.  Oonnel  came  from  it — “ Oh ! oh  I Miss,”  cried  she,  “ so  you  are 
returned : I protest  I was  beginning  to  think  you  had  stolen  a march 
upon  us.”  There  was  a rude  bluntness  in  this  speech,  which  con- 
founded Amanda ; and  her  mind  misgave  her  that  all  was  not  right. 

“ Come,”  continued  Mrs.  Connel,  “ come  in,  Miss ; I assure  you  I 
have  been  very  impatient  for  your  return.”  Amanda’s  fears  increased. 
She  followed  Mrs.  Connel  in  silence  into  the  parlour,  where  she 
beheld  an  elderly  woman,  of  a pleasing  but  emaciated  appearance, 
who  seemed  in  great  agitation  and  distress.  How  she  could  possibly  ^ 
have  any  thing  to  say  to  this  woman  she  could  not  conjecture ; and 
yet  an  idea  that  she  had  instantly  darted  into  her  mind;  she  sat 
down  tremblng  in  every  limb,  and  waited  with  impatience  for  an 
explanation  of  this  scene.  After  a general  silence  of  a few  minutes, 
the  stranger,  looking  at  Amanda,  said,  “My  daughter,  madam,  has 
informed  me  we  are  indebted  to  your  bounty ; T am  therefore  happy 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY 


529 


ftt  an  opportunity  of  discharging  the  debt.”  These  words  announcod 
Mrs.  Rushbrook,  but  Amanda  was  confounded  at  her  manner;  its 
coldness  and  formality  were  more  expressive  of  dislike  and  severity^ 
than  of  gentleness  or  gratitude.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  rose  as  she  spoke, 
and  offered  a note  to  her.  Speechless  from  astonishment,  Amanda 
had  not  power  either  to  decline  or  accept  it,  and  it  was  laid  on  a 
table  before  her. 

“ Allow  me,  madam,”  said  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  as  she  resumed  her 
scat,  to  ask  if  your  real  name  is  Donald  Amanda’s  presentiment 
of  underhand  doings  was  now  verified ; it  was  evident  to  her  that 
their  author  was  Belgrave,  and  that  he  had  been  too  successful  in 
contriving  them. 

Amanda  now  appeared  to  have  reached  the  crisis  of  her  fate : in  all 
the  various  trials  she  had  hitherto  experienced  she  had  still  some 
stay,  some  hope,  to  support  her  weakness  and  soothe  her  sorrows  I 
when  groaning  under  the  injuries  her  character  sustained  by  the  suc- 
cess of  an  execrable  plot,  she  had  the  consolation  to  think  an  idoliz- 
ing father  would  shelter  her  from  farther  insult ; when  deprived  of 
that  father,,  tender  friends  stepped  forward,  who  mingled  tears  of 
sympathy  with  hers,  and  poured  the  balm  of  pity  on  her  sorrowing 
heart;  when  torn  from  the  beloved  object  enshrined  within  that 
heart,  while  her  sick  soul  languished  under  the  heavy  burthen  of 
existence,  again  did  the  voice  of  friendship  penetrate  its  gloom,  and 
though  it  could  not  remove,  alleviated  its  sufferings ; now  helpless, 
unprotected,  she  saw  a dreadful  storm  ready  to  burst  over  her 
devoted  head,  without  one  hope  to  cheer,  one  stretched-out  arm  to 
shield  her  from  its  violence ; surrounded  by  strangers  prejudiced 
against  her,  she  could  not  think  that  her  plain,  unvarnished  tale 
would  gain  their  credence,  or  prevail  on  them  to  protect  her  from 
the  wretch  whose  machinations  had  ruined  her  in  their  estimation. 
The  horrors  of  her  situation,  all  at  once  assailing  her  mind,  over- 
powered its  faculties;  a kind  of  mental  sickness  seized  her;  she 
*eaned  her  throbbing  head  upon  her  hand,  and  a deep  groan  burst 
from  her  agonized  heart. 

“You  see,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  after  a long  silence,  “she  cannot 
brave  this  discovery.” 

Amanda  raised  her  hands  at  these  words ; she  had  grown  a little 
more  composed.  “ The  being  in  whom  I trust,”  she  said  to  herself. 

23 


530 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


“ and  whom  I never  wilfully  olfended,  will  still,  I doubt  not,  as  here- 
tofore, protect  me  from  danger.”  Mrs.  Eushbrook’s  unanswered 
question  still  sounded  in  her  ear.  “ Allow  me,  madam,”  she  cried, 
turning  to  her,  “ to  ask  your  reason  for  inquiring  whether  my  real 
is  Donald?” 

“ Oh,  Lord ! my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  adddressing  Mrs.  Eush- 
brook,  “ you  need  not  pester  yourself  or  her  with  any  more  questions 
about  the  matter,  her  question  is  an  answer  in  itself.” 

“ I am  of  your  opinion,  indeed,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Eushbrook,  “ and 
think  any  farther  inquiry  needless.” 

“ I acknowledge,  madam,”  said  Amanda,  whose  voice  grew  firmer 
from  the  consciousness  of  never  having  acted  improperly,  ‘‘  that  my 
name  is  not  Donald.  I must  also  do  myself  the  justice  to  declare  (let 
me  be  credited  or  not)  that  my  real  one  was  not  concealed  from  any 
motive  which  could  deserve  -reproach  or  censure.  My  situation  is 
peculiarly  distressing. — ^My  only  consolation  amidst  my  difficulties  is 
the  idea  of  never  having  drawn  them  upon  myself  by  imprudence.” 

“ I do  not  want,  madam,”  replied  Mrs.  Eushbrook,  “ to  inquire  into 
your  situation ; you  have  been  candid  in  one  instance,  I hope  you 
will  be  equally  so  in  another.  Pray,  madam,”  handing  to  Amanda 
the  letter  she  had  written  to  Eushbrook,  “ is  this  your  writing?” 

“ Yes^  madam,”  answered  Amanda,  whose  pride  was  roused  by  the 
contempt  she  met,  ‘‘  it  is  my  writing.” 

“And  pray,”  said  Mrs.  Eushbrook,  looking  steadfastly  at  her, 
while  her  voice  grew  more  severe,  “ what  was  your  motive  for 
writing  this  letter  ?” 

“ I think,  madam,”  cried  Amanda,  “ the  letter  explains  that.” 

“A  pretty  explanation  truly!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel:  “and  so 
you  would  try  to  vilify  the  poor  gentleman’s  character  ? But  Miss, 
we  have  had  an  explanation  you  little  dream  of ; ay,  we  found  you 
out,  notwithstanding  your  slyness  in  writing  like  one  of  the  madams 
in  a novel,  a bit  of  a letter,  without  ever  a name  to  it.  Mr.  Sipthorpe 
knew  directly  who  it  came  from.  Ah ! poor  gentleman,  he  allowed 
you  wit  enough,  a pity  there  is  not  more  goodness  with  it ; he  knows 
you  very  well,  to  his  cost.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Amanda,  “he  knows  I am  a being  whose  happiness  he 
disturbed,  but  whose  innocence  he  never  triumphed  over.  He  knows 
that,  like  an  evil  genius,  he  has  pursued  my  wandering  footsteps, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY# 


hx'aphig  sorrow  upon  sorrow  on  me  by  his  machinations ; but  he  alsa 
knows,  when  encompassed  by  those  sorrows,  perplexed  by  those 
machinations,  I rose  superior  to  them  all,  and  with  uniform  contempt 
and  abhorrence  rejected  his  offers.” 

“Depend  upon  it,”  cried  Mrs.  Oonnel,  “she  has  been  an  actress.” 

“ Yes,  madam,”  said  Amanda,  whose  struggling  voice  confessed  the 
anguish  of  her  soul ; “ upon  a stage  where  I have  seen  a sad  variety 
of  scenes.” 

“ Come,  come,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Connel,  “ confess  all  about  yourself 
and  Sipthorpe ; full  confession  will  entitle  you  to  pardon.” 

“ It  behoves  me  indeed,”  said  Amanda,  “ to  be  explicit : my 
character  requires  it,  and  my  wish,”  she  continued,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Eushbrook,  “to  save  you  from  a fatal  blow  demands  it.”  She  then 
proceeded  to  relate  every  thing  she  knew  concerning  Belgrave;  but 
she  had  the  mortification  to  find  her  short  and  simple  story  received 
with  every  mark  of  incredulity. — “Beware,  madam,”  said  she  to  Mrs. 
Eushbrook,  “ of  this  infatuation,  I adjure  you,  madam,  beware  of  the 
consequences  of  it : oh  I doom  not  your  innocent,  your  reluctant  Emily 
to  destruction : draw  not  upon  your  own  head,  by  such  a deed,  horri- 
ble and  excruciating  anguish. — Why  does  not  Mr.  Sipthorpe,  if  I must 
call  him  so,  appear,  and  in  my  presence  support  his  allegations  ?” 

“I  asked  him  to  do  so,”  replied  Mrs.  Eushbrook;  “but  he  has 
feeling,  and  he  wished  not  to  see  your  distress,  however  merited  it 
might  be.” 

“Mo,  madam,”  cried  Amanda,  “he  refused,  because  he  knew  that 
without  shrinking  he  could  not  behold  the  innocence  he  has  so 
abused,  because  he  knew  the  conscious  colouring  of  his  cheek  would 
betray  the  guilty  feelings  of  his  soul.  Again  I repeat  he  is  not  what 
he  appears  to  be.  I refer  you  for  the  truth  of  my  words  to  Sir 
Charles  Bingley.  I feel  for  you,  though  you  have  not  felt  for  me.  I 
know,  from  false  representations,  you  think  me  a poor  misguided 
creature ; but  was  I even  so,  my  too  evident  anguish  might  surely 
have  excited  pity.  Pardon  me,  madam,  if  I say  your  conduct  has 
been  most  unkind ; the  gentle  virtues  are  surely  those  best  fitting  a 
female  breast;  she  that  shows  leniency  to  a fallen  fellow- creature, 
fulfils  the  divine  precept;  the  tear  she  sheds  over  her  frailties  is 
I consecrated  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  and  her  compassion  draws  a 
[ bleocing  on  her  own  head.  Oh  I madam ! I once  looked  forward  to  a 


532 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


meeting  with  you,  far,  far  different  from  the  present  one;  I once 
flattered  myself  that  from  the  generous  friendship  of  Mr.  and  Mrs, 
llushbrook  I should  derive  support  and  consolation;  but  this,  like 
every  other  hope,  is  disappointed.”  Amanda’s  voice  faltered  at  these 
words,  and  tears  again  trickled  down  her  lovely  cheeks ; a faint  glow 
tinged  the  pale  cheek  of  Mrs.  Rushbrook  at  Amanda’s  accusation  of 
nnkindness ; she  bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground  as  if  conscious  it  was 
merited,  and  it  was  many  minutes  ere  she  could  again  look  on  the 
trembling  creature  before  her.  “ Perhaps,”  said  she  at  last,  “ I may 
have  spoken  too  severely ; but  it  must  be  allowed  I had  great  provo- 
cation ; friendship  and  gratitude  could  not  avoid  resenting  such 
shocking  charges  as  yours  against  Mr.  Sipthorpe.” 

“ For  my  part,  I wonder  you  spoke  so  mildly  to  her,”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Connel : “ I protest  in  future  I shall  be  guarded  who  I admit 
into  my  house.  I declare  she  seemed  so  distressed  at  the  idea  of 
going  among  strangers,  that,  sooner  than  let  her  do  so,  I believe,  if 
Miss  Emily  had  not,  I should  have  offered  her  a part  of  my  bed ; but 
this  distress  was  all  a pretext  to  get  into  the  house  with  Mr. 
Sipthorpe,  that  she  might  try  to  entangle  him  in  her  snares  again. 
Well,  I am  determined  she  shall  not  stay  another  night  under  my 
roof.  Ay,  you  may  stare  as  you  please,  Miss,  but  you  shall  march 
directly ; you  are  not  so  ignorant  about  London,  I dare  say  as  you 
j)retend  to  be.” 

Mrs.  Connel  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  approached  her  with  a look, 
which  seemed  to  say  she  would  put  her  threat  into  execution.  It 
was  Amanda’s  intention  to  quit  the  house  the  next  morning ; but  to 
be  turned  from  it  at  such  an  hour,  a wanderer  in  the  street,  the  idea 
was  replete  with  horror ! She  started  up,  and  retreating  a few  paces, 
looked  at  Mrs.  Connel  with  a kind  of  melancholy  wildness.  “ Yes,” 
repeated  Mrs.  Connel,  “ I say  you  shall  march  directly.”  The 
wretched  Amanda’s  head  grew  giddy,  her  sight  failed,  her  limbs 
refused  to  support  her,  and  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  had 
not  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  who  perceived  her  situation,  timely  caught  her. 
61ie  was  replaced  in  a chair  and  water  sprinkled  on  her  face.  “Be 
composed,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  whose  softened  voice  pro- 
claimed the  return  of  her  con  passion ; “you  shall  not  leave  this 
house  to-night,  I promise  in  the  name  of  Mrs.  Connel ; she  is  a good- 
natured  w^oraan,  and  would  not  aggravate  your  distress.” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


“Ay,  Lord  knows,  good  nature  is  my  foible,”  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Oonnel ; “so,  Miss,  as  Mrs.  Eusiibrook  has  promised,  you  may  staj 
here  to-night.” 

Amanda  opened  her  languid  eyes,  and  raising  her  head  from  Mrs. 
Rushbrook’s  bosom,  said,  in  a low,  tremulous  voice,  “To-morrow, 
madam,  I shall  depart.  Oh ! would  to  heaven,”  cried  she,  clasping 
her  hands  together,  and  bursting  into  an  agony  of  tears,  “ before  to- 
morrow I could  be  rid  of  the  heavy  burthen  that  oppresses  me !” 

“ Well,  we  have  had  wailing  and  weeping  enough  to-night,”  said 
Mrs.  Oonnel,  “so.  Miss,  you  may  take  one  of  the  candles  off  the 
table,  and  go  to  your  chamber  if  you  choose.” 

Amanda  did  not  require  to  have  this  permission  repeated.  Sho 
arose,  and  taking  the  light,  left  the  parlour.  With  feeble  steps  she 
ascended  to  the  little  chamber ; but  here  all  was  dark  and  solitary ; 
no  cheerful  fire  sent  forth  an  animating  blaze,  no  gentle  Emily,  like 
the  mild  genius  of  benevolence,  appeared  to  offer,  with  undissembled 
kindness,  her  little  attentions ; forsaken,  faint,  the  pale  child  of  misery 
laid  down  the  candle,  and,  seating  herseff  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  gave 
way  to  deep  and  agonizing  sorrow. 

“ Was  I ever,”  she  asked  herself,  “ blessed  with  friends  who  valued 
my  existence  as  their  own,  who  called  me  the  beloved  of  their  hearts  ? 
Oh,  yes,”  she  groaned,  “ once  such  friends  were  mine,  and  the  sad 
remembrance  of  them  aggravates  my  present  misery.  Oh ! happy  is 
our  ignorance  of  futurity ! Oh ! my  father,  had  you  been  permitted 
to  read  the  awful  volume  of  fate,  the  page  marked  with  your 
Amanda’s  destiny  would  have  rendered  your  existence  miserable,  and 
made  you  wish  a thousand  times  the  termination  of  hers. 

“ Oh ! Oscar,  from  another  hand  than  mine  must  you  receive  the 
deed  which  shall  entitle  you  to  independence ; my  trials  sink  me  to 
the  grave,  to  that  grave  in  which  but  for  the  sweet  hope  of  again 
seeing  you,  I should  long  since  have  wished  myself.”  The  chamber 
door  opened ; she  turned  her  eyes  to  it  in  expectation  of  seeing  Emily, 
but  was  disappointed  on  perceiving  only  the  maid  of  the  house. 
“Oh!  dear  ma’am,”  cried  she,  going  up  to  Amanda,  “I  declare  it 
quite  grieves  me  to  see  you  in  such  a situation.  Poor  Miss  Emily  is 
just  in  as  sad  sl  plight.  Well,  it  is  no  matter,  but  I think  both  the 
old  ladies  will  be  punished  for  plaguing  you  in  this  manner.  Madam 
Rushinook  will  be  sorry  enough,  when,  after  giving  her  daughter  to 


534 


children  of  the  abbey. 


Mr.  Sij)ihorpe,  she  finds  he  is  not  what  he  seems  to  he.”  Amamia 
shrunk  with  horror  from  the  idea  of  Emily’s  destruction,  and  by  a 
motion  of  her  hand,  signified  to  the  maid  her  dislike  to  the  subject. 
“ Well,  ma’am,”  she  continued,  “Miss  Emily,  as  I was  saying,  is 
quite  in  as  bad  a plight  as  yourself ; they  have  clapped  her  into  my 
mistress’s  chamber,  which  she  durst  not  leave  without  running  the 
risk  of  bringing  their  tongues  upon  her:  however,  she  contrived  to 
see  me,  and  sent  you  this  note.”  Amanda  took  it,  and  read  the  fol- 
lowing lines : 


“I. hope  my  dear  Miss  Donald  will  not  doubt  my  sincerity,  when  I 
declare  that  all  my  sorrows  are  heightened,  by  knowing  I have  been 
the  occasion  of  trouble  to  her.  I have  heard  of  the  unworthy  treat- 
ment she  has  received  in  this  house,  and  her  intention  of  quitting  it 
to-morrow ; knowing  her  averseness  to  lodge  in  a place  she  is 
unacquainted  with,  1 have  been  speaking  to  the  maid  about  her,  and 
had  the  satisfaction  to  hear,  that,  through  her  means,  my  dear  Miss 
Donald  might  be  safely  accommodated  for  a short  time,  long  enough, 
however,  to  permit  her  to  look  out  for  an  eligible  situation.  I refer 
hAr  for  particulars  of  the  conversation  to  the  maid,  whose  fidelity 
may  be  relied  on.  To  think  it  may  be  useful  to  my  dear  Miss  Donald, 
aftbrds  me  the  only  pleasure  I am  now  capable  of  enjoying.  In  her 
esteem  may  I ever  retain  the  place  of  a sincere  and  afiectionate 
friend. 

“E.  R.” 

“ And  where  is  the  place  I can  be  lodged  in  ?”  eagerly  asked 
Amanda. 

“ Why,  ma’am,”  said  the  maid,  “ I have  a sister  who  is  house- 
maid at  a very  grand  place  on  the  Richmond  road.  All  the  family 
are  now  gone  to  Brighton,  and  she  is  left  alone  in  the  house,  where 
you  would  be  very  welcome  to  take  up  your  residence  till  you  could 
get  one  to  your  mind.  My  sister  is  a sage  sober  body,  and  would  do 
everything  in  her  power  to  please  and  oblige  you,  and  you  would  be 
as  snug  and  secure  with  her  as  in  a house  of  your  own ; and  poor 
Miss  Emily  begged  you  would  go  to  her,  till  you  could  get  lodgings 
with  people  whose  characters  you  know : and,  indeed,  ma’am,  it  is 
ray  humble  opinion  it  would  be  safe  and  pleasant  for  you  to  do  so ; 
and  if  you  consent,  I will  conduct  you  there  to-morrow  morning : 
and  I am  sure,  ma’am,  I shall  be  happy  if  I have  the  power  of  serving 
you.”  Like  the  lady  in  Oomus,  Amanda  might  have  said, 


CIIILDUEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


535 


I take  thy  word 

And  trust  thy  honest  offer’d  courtesy  ; 

For  in  a place 

Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 

I cannot  be,  that  I should  fear  to  change  it. 

Eye  me,  bless’d  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 

To  my  proportion’d  strength. 

To  take  refuge  in  this  manner  in  any  one’s  house  was  truly 
repugnant  to  the  feelings  of  Amanda ; hut  sad  necessity  conquered 
her  scrupulous  delicacy,  and  she  asked  the  maid,  ^ at  what  hour  in 
the  morning  she  should  be  ready  for  her.” 

“I  shall  come  to  you,  ma’am,”  answered  she,  ‘‘as  goon  as  I think 
there  is  a carriage  on  the  stand,  and  then  we  can  go  together  to  get 
one ; but  I protest,  ma’am,  you  look  sadly ; I wish  you  would  allow 
me  to  assist  in  undressing  you,  for  I am  sure  you  want  a little  rest ; 
I dare  say,  for  all  my  mistress  said,  if  you  choose  it,  I could  get  a 
little  wine  from  her  to  make  whey  for  you.”  Amanda  refused  this, 
but  accepted  her  offer  of  assistance,  for  she  was  so  overpowered  by 
Uie  scenes  of  the  day,  as  to  be  almost  unequal  ^o  any  exertion.  The 
maid  retired  after  she  had  seen  her  to  bed.  Amanda  entreated  her  to 
be  punctual  to  an  early  hour,  and  also  requested  her  to  give  her  most 
affectionate  love  to  Miss  Kushbrook,  and  her  sincere  thanks  for  the 
kind  solicitude  she  had  expressed  about  her.  Her  rest  was  now,  as 
on  the  preceding  night,  broken  and  disturbed  by  frightful  visions. 
She  rose  pale,  trembling,  and  unrefreshed.  The  maid  came  to  her 
soon  after  she  was  dressed,  and  she  immediately  accompanied  her 
down  stairs,  trembling  as  she  went,  lest  Belgrave  should  suddenly 
make  his  appearance,  and  either  prevent  her  departure^  or  follow  her 
to  her  new  residence.  She  left  the  house,  however,  without  meeting 
any  creature,  and  soon  obtained  the  shelter  of  a carriage. 

As  they  proceeded  Amanda  besought  the  maid,  who  seemed 
perfectly  acquainted  with  every  thing  relative  to  Belgrave,  to  tell 
Miss  Kushbrook  to  believe  her  assertions  against  him,  if  she  wished  to 
save  herself  from  destruction.  The  maid  assured  her  she  would,  and 
declared  she  always  suspected  Mr.  Sipthorpe  was  not  as  good  as  he 
should  be.  Amanda  soon  found  herself  at  the  end  of  her  little 
journey.  The  house  was  elegant  and  spacious,  with  a short  avenue 
before  it,  planted  with  chestnuts.  The  maid’s  sister  was  an  elderly, 
plain-looking  woman,  who  recewed  Amanda  with  every  appearance 


536 


CHljbDREK  OF  THE  ABBEY 


of  respect,  and  conducted  her  into  a handsome  parlour,  -where  a neab 
breakfast  was  laid  out.  “I  took  care,  ma’am,”  said  the  maid, 
smiling,  ‘‘  to  apprise  my  sister  last  night  of  the  honour  she  was  to 
have  this  morning;  and  I am  sure  she  will  do  every  thing  in  her 
power  to  oblige  ycri.” 

I bhank  you  both,”  cried  Amanda,  with  her  usual  sweetness ; but 
while  she  spoke,  a straggling  tear  stole  down  her  lovely  cheek  at  the 
idea  of  that  forlorn  situation,  which  had  thus  cast  her  upon  the 
kindness  of  strangers ; strangers  who  were  themselves  the  children 
of  poverty  and  dependence : I hope,  however,”  she  continued,  “ I 
shall  not  long  be  a trouble  to  either,  as  it  is  my  intention  immedi- 
ately to  look  out  for  a lodging  amongst  the  cottages  in  this  neigbour- 
hood  till  I can  settle  my  affairs  to  return  to  my  friends.  In  the  mean 
time,  I must  insist  on  making  some  recompense  for  the  attention  I 
have  received,  and  the  expense  I have  put  you  to.”  She  accordingly 
forced  a present  upon  each,  for  both  the  women  appeared  unwilling 
to  accept  them ; and  Mrs.  Deborah,  the  maid’s  sister,  said  ‘‘  it  was 
quite  unnecessary  at  present  to  think  of  leaving  the  house,  as  the 
family  would  not  return  to  it  for  six  weeks.”  Amanda,  however, 
was  resolved  on  doing  what  she  had  said,  as  she  could  not  conquei 
the  repugnance  she  felt  to  continue  in  a stranger’s  house,  Mrs.  Con* 
nel’s  maid  departed  in  a few  minutes ; of  the  breakfast  prepared  foi 
her,  Amanda  could  only  take  some  tea ; her  head  ached  violently, 
and  her  whole  frame  felt  disordered.  Mrs.  Deborah,  seeing  hex 
dejection,  proposed  showing  her  the  house  and  garden,  which  was 
very  fine,  to  amuse  her;  but  Amanda  declined  the  proposal  at 
present,  saying,  “ She  thought  if  she  lay  down  she  would  be  better. 
She  was  immediately  conducted  to  an  elegant  chamber,  where  Mrs. 
Deborah  left  her,  saying,  “ She  would  prepare  some  little  light  thing 
for  her  dinner,  which  she  hoped  would  tempt  her  to  eat.” 

Amanda  now  tried  to  compose  her  spirits  by  reflecting  she  was  in  a 
place  of  security ; but  their  agitation  was  not  to  be  subdued  from  the 
sleep  into  which  mere  fatigue  had  thrown  her ; she  was  continually 
starting  in  inexpressible  terrors.  Mrs.  Deborah  came  up  two  or  three 
times  to  know  how  she  was,  and  at  last  appeared  with  dinner.  She 
laid  a small  table  by  the  bedside,  and  besought  Amanda  to  rise  and 
try  to  eat ; there  was  a friendliness  in  her  manner,  which  recalled  to 
Amanda’s  recollection  her  faithful  nurse  Edwin,  and  she  sighed  to 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5sr 


think  that  the  shelter  of  her  humble  cottage  she  could  no  more 
enjoy  (should  such  a shelter  be  required,)  from  its  vicinity  to  Tudor 
Hall,  near  which  every  feeling  of  tenderness  and  propriety  must  for- 
bid her  residing : the  sad  remembrance  which  now  revived  in  her 
mind  drew  tears  from  her,  and  rendered  her  unable  to  eat.  She 
thanked  Mrs.  Deborah  for  her  attention ; but,  anxious  to  be  alone, 
said  she  would  no  longer  detain  her ; yet  no  sooner  was  she  alone 
than  she  found  solitude  insupportable;  she  could  not  sleep,  the 
anguish  of  her  mind  was  so  great,  and  arose  with  the  idea,  that  a 
walk  into  the  garden  might  be  of  use  to  her.  As  she  was  descending 
the  stairs,  she  heard,  notwithstanding  the  door  was  shut,  a man’s 
voice  from  a front  parlour.  She  started,  for  she  thought  it  was  a 
voice  familiar  to  her  ear ; with  a light  foot,  and  throbbing  heart,  she 
turned  into  a parlour  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  which  communicated 
with  the  other.  Here  she  listened,  and  soon  had  her  fears  confirmed 
by  recollecting  the  voice  to  be  that  of  Belgrave’s  servant,  whom  she 
had  often  seen  in  Devonshire.  She  listened  with  that  kind  of  horror, 
'which  the  trembling  wretch  may  be  supposed  to  feel  when  about 
hearing  a sentence  he  expects  to  be  dreadful. 

“ I assure,”  cried  the  man,  “ 'we  are  blown  up  at  Mrs.  Connel’s, 
but  that  is  of  little  consequence  to  us ; the  colonel  thinks  the  game 
now  in  view  better  than  he  has  lost,  so  to-night  you  may  expect  him 
in  a chaise  and  four  to  cary  off  your  fair  guest.” 

“ I declare  I am  glad  of  it,”  said  Mrs.  Deborah,  ‘‘  for  I think  she 
will  die  soon.” 

“ Die  soon !”  repeated  he,  “ oh ! yes,  indeed ; great  danger  of  that;” 
and  he  added  something  else,  which,  being  delivered  with  a violent 
burst  of  laughter,  Amanda  could  not  hear:  she  thought  she  heard 
them  moving  towards  the  door ; she  instantly  slipped  from  the 
I>arlour,  and,  ascending  the  stairs  in  breathless  haste,  stopped  oatside 
the  chamber  door  to  listen.  In  a few  minutes  she  heard  them  coming 
into  the  hall,  and  the  man  softly  let  out  by  Mrs.  Deborah.  Amanda 
now  entered  the  chamber,  and  closed  the  door,  and  knowing  a guilty 
conscience  is  easily  alarmed,  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  lest  Mrs. 
Deborah,  if  she  found  her  up,  should  have  her  suspicions  awakened. 
Her  desperate  situation  inspired  her  with  strength  and  courage,  and 
she  trusted  by  presence  of  mind,  to  be  able  to  extricate  herselt  irora 
it ; it  was  her  intention,  if  she  effected  her  escape,  to  proceed  directly 

28* 


638 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


to  London,  though  the  idea  of  entering  it  without  a certain  p.ace  to 
go  to,  Avas  shocking  to  her  imagination ; yet,  she  thought  it  a more 
secure  place  for  her  than  any  of  the  neighhoiiring  cottages,  which 
might  he  searched.  Mrs.  Deborah,  as  she  expected,  soon  came  up  to 
her.  Amanda  involuntarily  shuddered  at  her  appearance,  but  know- 
ing her  safety  depended  on  the  concealment  of  her  feelings,  she 
forced  herself  to  converse  with  the  treacherous  creature.  She  at  last 
arose  from  the  bed,  declaring  she  had  indulged  her  languoi  too  mucli, 
and,  after  a fcAv  turns  about  the  room,  went  to  the  window,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  engrossed  in  admiring  the  garden.  “ There  is  a great 
deal  of  fruit  in  the  garden,”  said  she,  turning  to  Mrs.  Deborah ; if  I 
did  not  think  it  encroaching  too  much  on  your  kindness,  I should  ask 
you  for  a nectarine  or  two.” 

“Dear  ma’am,”  replied  Mrs.  Deborah,  “you  are  heartily  welcome. 
I declare  I should  have  offered  them  to  you,  only  I thought  you 
would  like  a turn  in  the  garden  and  pull  them  yourself.” 

“ Mo,”  said  Amanda,  “ I cannot  at  present.”  Mrs.  DeboraLi  went 
off,  and  Amanda  Avatched  at  the  window  till  she  saAV  her  at  the  very 
end  of  the  garden ; she  then  snatched  up  her  hat,  and  tied  it  on  with 
a handkerchief,  better  to  conceal  her  face,  then  hastily  descended  the 
stairs,  and  locked  the  back  door  to  prevent  an  immediate  pursuit. 
She  ran  down  the  avenue,  nor  flagged  in  her  course  till  she  had  got 
some  paces  from  it.  She  was  then  compelled  to  do  so,  as  much  from 
weakness  as  from  fear  of  attracting  notice,  if  she  Avent  on  in  such 
a wild  manner.  She  started  at  the  sound  of  every  carriage,  and 
hastily  averted  her  head  as  they  passed.  But  she  reached  London 
without  any  alarm  but  Avhat  her  own  fears  gave  lier.  The  hour  was 
noAv  late  and  gloomy,  and  Avarned  Amanda  of  the  necessity  there  Avas 
for  exertions  to  procure  a lodging.  Some  poor  women  she  saw  retir- 
ing from  their  little  fruit  stands  drcAV  a shoAver  of  tears  from  her, 
to  think  her  situation  was  more  Avretched  than  theirs,  whom  but 
a few  days  before  she  should  have  considered  as  objects  of  compas- 
sion. She  kneAV  at  such  an  hour  she  Avould  only  be  receiA^ed  into 
houses  of  an  inferior  description,  and  looked  for  one  in  which  she 
could  think  there  miglit  be  a chance  of  gaining  admittance.  She  at 
last  came  to  a small,  mean-looking  house:  “This  humble  roof, 
I think,”  cried  she,  “ Avill  not  disdain  to  shelter  an  unhappy  Avander- 
erl”  She  turned  into  the  shop,  Avhere  butter  and  cheese  Avere  dis^ 


CniLDREK  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


539 


played,  and  where  an  elderly  woman  sat  knitting  behind  the  counter. 
She  rose  immediately  as  if  from  surprise  and  respect  at  Amanda’s 
appearance,  who  in  universal  agitation  leaned  against  the  door  for 
support,  unable  for  some  minutes  to  speak.  At  last,  in  faltering^ 
accents,  whilst  over  her  pale  face  a crimson  blush  was  diffused,  she 
said,  ‘‘I  should  be  glad  to  know  if  you  have  any  lodgings  to  let.” 

The  woman  instantly  dropped  into  her  scat,  and  looking  steadfastly 
at  Amanda, — “This  is  a strange  hour,”  cried  she,  “ for  any  decent 
body  to  come  looking  for  lodgings!” 

“ I am  as  sensible  of  that  as  you  can  be,”  said  Amanda,  “hut  pecu- 
liar circumstances  have  obliged  me  to  it ; if  you  can  accommodate  me, 

1 can  assure  you,  you  will  not  have  reason  to  repent  doing  so.” 

“ Oh ! I do  not  know  how  that  may  be ;”  cried  she ; “ it  is  natural 
for  a body  to  speak  a good  word  of  themselves : however,  , if  I do  let 
you  a room,  for  I have  only  one  to  spare,  I shall  expect  to  he  paid  for 
it  before-hand.” 

“ You  shall,  indeed,”  said  Amanda. 

“Well,  I will  show  it  you,”  said  she.  She  accordingly  called  a girl 
io  watch  the  shop,  and  taking  a candle,  went  up  before  Amanda,  a 
narrow  winding  flight  of  stairs,  and  conducted  her  into  a room,  whose 
dirty,  miserable  appearance  made  her  involuntarily  shrink  hack,  as  if 
from  the  den  of  wretchedness  itself.  She  tried  to  subdue  the  disgust 
it  inspired  her  with,  by  reflecting  that,  after  the  imminent  danger  she 
had  escaped,  she  should  be  happy  to  procure  any  asylum  she  could 
consider  safe ; she  also  tried  to  reconcile  herself  to  it,  by  reflecting 
that  in  the  morning  she  should  quit  it. 

“ Well,  ma’am,”  said  the  woman,  “the  price  of  this  room  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  one  guinea  per  week,  and  if  you  do  not  like  it,  you 
are  welcome  not  to  stay.” 

“ I have  no  objection  to  the  price,”  replied  Amanda ; “but  I hope 
you  have  quiet  people  in  the  house.” 

“ I flatter  myself,  ma’am,”  said  the  woman,  drawing  up  her  head, 

“ there  is  never  a house,  in  the  parish  can  boast  a better  name  than 
mine.” 

“ I am  glad  to  hear  it, ’’.answered  Amanda,  “ and  I hope  you  are  not 
offended  by  the  inquiry.”  She  now  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  for 
the  purse,  to  give  the  expected  guinea ; but  the  purse  was  not  there. 
She  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  searched  the  other,  but  with 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


as  little  success.  She  pulled  out  the  contents  of  both,  but  no  purso 
was  to  be  found.  “ l^ow — now,”  cried  she,  clasping  her  hands 
together,  in  an  agony  which  precluded  reflection,  ‘‘  now — now,  I am 
dost,  indeed ! My  purse  is  stolen,’  she  continued,  “ and  I cannot  give 
you  the  promised  guinea.” 

Mo,  nor  never  could,  I suppose,”  exclaimed  the  woman.  “ Ah  I 
I suspected  all  along  what  you  were ; and  so  you  were  glad  my  house 
had  a good  name  ? I shall  take  care  that  it  does  not  lose  that  name 
by  lodging  you.” 

“I  conjure  you,”  cned  Amanda,  starting  up  and  laying  her  hand 
on  the  woman’s,  ‘‘  I conjure  you  to  let  me  stay  this  night : you  will 
not,  you  shall  not  lose  by  doing  so.  I have  things  of  value  in  a trunk 
in  town,  for  which  I will  this  instant  give  you  a direction.” 

“ Your  trunk,”  replied  the  woman,  in  a scornful  tone ; “ oh ! yes, 
you  have  a trunk  with  tilings  of  value  in  it  as  much  as  you  have  a 
purse  in  your  pocket.  A pretty  story  indeed ; but  I know  too  much 
of  the  ways  of  the  world  to  be  deceived  now-a-days  : so  march 
directly.” 

Amanda  again  began  to  entreat,  but  the  woman  interrupted  her, 
and  declared,  ‘‘  if  she  did  not  depart  directly,  she  would  be  sorry  for 
it.”  Amanda  instantly  ceased  her  importunities,  and,  in  trembling 
silence  followed  her  down  stairs.  Oppressed  with  weakness,  she 
involuntarily  hesitated  in  the  shop,  which  the  woman  perceiving, 
she  rudely  seized  her,  and  pushing  her  from  it,  shut  the  door. 
Amanda  could  not  now,  as  in  former  exigencies,  consider  what  was 
to  be  done.  Alas  ! if  even  capable  of  reflection,  it  could  have 
suggested  no  plan  which  there  was  a hope  of  accomplishing.  The 
powers  of  her  mind  were  overwhelmed  with  horror  and  anguish 
she  moved  mechanically  along,  nor  stopped,  till  from  weakness  she 
sunk  upon  the  step  of  a door,  against  which  she  leaned  her  head  in  a 
kind  of  lethargy  ; but  from  this  she  was  suddenly  roused  by  two 
men  who  stopped  before  her.  Death  alone  could  have  conquered  her 
terrors  of  Belgrave.  She  instantly  concluded  these  to  be  him  and 
his  man.  She  started  up,  uttered  a scream,  and  calling  upon  heaven 
to  defend  her,  was  springing  past  them,  when  her  hand  was  suddenly 
caught.  She  made  a feeble,  but  unsuccessful  effort  to  disengage  it, 
and,  overcome  by  terror  and  weakness,  fell,  though  not  fainting, 
tillable  to  support  herself,  upon  the  bosom  of  him  who  had  arrested 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  A.BBEY. 


541 


her  course ; — “ Gracious  Heaven!”  cried  he,  “I  have  heard  that  voice 
before.” 

Amanda  raised  her  head : — “ Sir  Charles  Bingley !”  she  exclaimed 
The  feelings  of  joy,  surprise,  and  shame  that  pervaded  her  whole 
soul,  and  thrilled  through  her  frame,  were,  in  its  present  weak  state, 
too  much  for  it,  and  she  again  sunk  upon  his  shoulder.  The  joy  of 
unexpected  protection,  for  protection  she  was  convinced  she  w^ould 
receive  from  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  was  conquered  by  reflecting  on  the 
injurious  ideas  her  present  situation  must  excite  in  his  mind;  ideas 
she  feared  she  would  never  be  able  to  remove,  so  strongly  were 
appearances  against  her. 

‘‘Gracious  Heaven!”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  “is  this  Miss  Fitz- 
alan?  Oh ; this,”  he  cried,  in  a tone  of  deep  dejection,  “ is,  indeed  a 
meeting  of  horror!”  A deep,  convulsive  sob  from  Amanda  alone 
f roclaimed  her  sensibility,  for  she  lay  motionless  in  his  arms,  arms 
which  involuntarily  encircled  and  enfolded  her  to  a heart  that 
throbbed  with  intolerable  anguish  on  her  account.  His  friend  stood 
all  this  time  a silent  spectator  of  the  scene.  The  raillery  which  he 
had  been  on  the  point  of  uttering  at  seeing  Amanda,  as  he  thought, 
so  premeditatedly  fall  into  the  arms  of  his  companion,  was  stopped 
by  the  sudden  exclamation  of  Sir  Charles.  Though  the  face  of 
Amanda  was  concealed,  the  glimmering  of  a lamp  over  their  heads 
gave  him  a view  of  her  fine  form,  and  the  countenance  of  Sir  Charles, 
as  he  bent  over  her,  was  full  of  sorrow  and  dismay. 

“Miss  Fitzalan,”. cried  Sir  Charles,  after  the  silence  of  a minute, 
“ you  are  ill : allow  me  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  home.” 

“Home!”  repeated  Amanda,  in  the  slow  and  hollow  voice  of 
despair,  and  raising  her  languid  head,  “alas!  I have  no  home  to 
go  to.” 

Every  surmise  of  horror  which  Sir  Charles  had  formed  from 
seeing  her  in  her  present  situation  was  now  confirmed.  He  groaned, 
he  shuddered,  and,  scarcely  able  to  stand,  was  obliged  to  lean,  with 
tlie  lovely  burthen  he  supported,  against  the  rails.  He  besought  his 
friend  either  to  procure  a chair  or  coach,  in  which  he  might  have 
her  conveyed  to  a house  where  he  knew  he  could  gain  her  admit- 
t-ance.  Touched  by  his  distress,  and  the  powerful  impulse  of 
humanity,  his  friend  instantly  went  to  comply  with  his  request. 

The  silence  of  Amanda,  Sir  Charles  imputed  to  shame  and  illness, 


543  CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY 

and  grief  and  delicacy  forbade  him  to  notice  it.  His  friend  returned 
in  a few  minutes  with  a coach,  and  Sir  Charles  then  found  that 
Amanda’s  silence  did  not  altogether  proceed  from  the  motives  he  had 
ascribed  to  it,  for  she  had  fainted  on  his  bosom.  She  was  lifted  into 
the  carriage,  and  he  again  received  her  in  his  arms.  On  the  carriage 
stopping,  he  committed  her  to  the  care  of  his  friend,  whilst  he 
stepped  into  the  house  to  procure  her  a reception.  In  a few  minutes 
he  returned  with  a maid,  who  assisted  him  in  carrying  her  up  stairs ; 
but  on  entering  the  drawing-room,  how  great  was  his  amazement 
when  a voice  suddenly  exclaimed,  “ Oh ! merciful  powers ! this  is 
Miss  Donald!”  It  was  indeed,  to  Mrs.  Oonnel’s  house,  and  to  the 
care  of  the  liushbrooks,  whom  his  bounty  had  released  from  prison, 
he  had  brought  her.  He  had  previously  informed  them  of  the  situa- 
tion in  which  he  found  her,  little  suspecting  at  the  time,  she  was  the 
Miss  Donald  they  mentioned  being  under  such  obligations  to. 

“ It  is  I,  it  is  I,”  cried  Mrs.  Kushbrook,  gazing  on  her  with  mingled 
horror  and  anguish,  “ it  is  I have  been  the  occasion  of  her  distress 
and  never  shall  I forgive  myself  for  it.” 

“Oh!  my  preserver,  my  friend,  my  benefactress,”  said  Emily, 
clasping  her  in  an  agony  of  tears  to  her  bosom,  “ is  it  thus  your 
Emily  beholds  you!”  Amanda  was  laid  upon  a couch,  and  her  hat 
being  removed,  displayed  a face  which,  with  the  paleness  of  death, 
had  all  the  wildness  of  despair;  a wildness  that  denoted  more 
expressively  than  language  could  have  done  the  conflicts  her  spirits 
had  endured  ; heavy  sighs  announced  her  having  recovered  from  her 
fainting  fit : but  her  eyes  still  continued  closed,  and  her  head,  too 
weak  to  be  self-supported,  rested  against  the  arm  of  the  couch.  Mrs. 
Eushbrook  and  her  daughter  hung  over  her  in  inexpressible  agonies. 
If  they  were  thus  affected,  oh!  how  y^sls  Sir  Charles  Bingley 
distressed  ? oh ! how  was  the  heart,  which  loved  her  with  the  most 
impassionate  tenderness,  agonized ! As  he  bent  over  the  couch,  the 
big  tear  trickled  down  his  manly  cheek,  and  fell  upon  the  cold  pale 
flice  he  contemplated.  He  softly  asked  himself,  “ Is  this  Amanda  ? 
Is  this  she,  whom  but  a short  time  ago  I beheld  moving  with 
unequalled  elegance,  adorned  with  unrivalled  beauty,  whom  my  heart 
worshipped  as  the  first  of  women,  and  sought  to  unite  its  destiny  to 
as  the  surest  means  of  rendering  that  destiny  happy  ? oh ! what  a 
change  is  here!  how  feeble  is  that  form;  how  hollow  is  that  cheek* 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


543 


how  heav^y  are  those  eyes,  whose  languid  glance  speaks  incurable 
anguish  of  soul ! Oh ! Amanda,  was  the  being  present,  who  first  led 
you  into  error,  what  horror  and  remorse  must  seize  his  soul  at  seeing 
the  consequence  of  that  error !”  “ Has  this  unhappy  young  creature,’* 
asked  Kushhrook,  who  had  approached  the  couch  and  viewed  her 
with  the  truest  pity,  “ no  connections  that  could  be  prevailed  on  to 
save  her  ?” 

“Hone  that  I know  of,”  replied  Sir  Charles;  “her  parenis  are  both 
dead.” 

“ Happy  are  the  parents,”  resumed  Rushbrook,  “ v/ho,  shrouded  in 
the  dust,  cannot  see  the  misfortune  of  their  children — the  fall  of  such 
a child  as  this!”  glancing  his  tearful  eyes  as  he  spoke  on  his 
daughters. 

“And  pray,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Connel,  who  was  chafing  her  temples 
with  lavender,  “if  she  recovers,  what  is  to  become  of  her?” 

“ It  shall  be  my  care,”  cried  Sir  Charles,  “ to  procure  an  asylum. 
Yes,  Amanda,”  he  continued,  looking  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  tenderness  and  grief,  “ he  that  must  forever  mourn  thy  fate, 
will  try  to  mitigate  it ; but  does  she  not  want  medical  assistance  ?” 

“ I think  not,”  replied  Mrs.  Connel ; “ it  is  want  of  nourishment 
and  rest  has  thrown  her  into  her  present  situation.” 

“Want  of  nourishment  and  rest!”  repeated  Sir  Charles:  “good 
heavens !”  continued  he,  in  the  sudden  agony  of  his  soul  (and  walking 
from  the  couch,)  “is  it  possible  that  Amanda  was  a wanderer  in  the 
streets,  without  food,  or  a place  to  lay  her  head  in  ? Oh ! this  is 
dreadful!  Oh!  my  friends,”  he  proceeded,  looking  around  him, 
whilst  his  eyes  beamed  the  divine  compassion  of  his  soul,  “ be  kind, 
be  careful  of  this  poor  creature ; but  it  is  unnecessary  to  exhort  you  to 
this,  and  excuse  me  for  having  done  so.  Yes,  I know  you  will 
delight  in  binding  up  a broken  heart,  and  drying  the  tears  of  a 

wretched  outcast.  A short  time  ago,  and  she  appeared” He 

stopped,  overcome  by  his  emotions,  and  turned  away  his  head  to 
wipe  away  his  tears;  “a  short  time  ago,”  he  resumed,  “and  slie 
appeared  all  that  the  heart  of  man  could  desire,  all  that  a v/oraan 
should  wish  and  ought  to  be.  How  she  is  fallen  indeed;  lost  to 
tierself  and  to  the  world.” 

“Ho,”  cried  Emily  with  a generous  warmth,  starting  from  the  side 
of  the  couch  at  which  she  had  been  kneeling,  “ I am  confident  she 
never  was  guilty  of  an  error.” 


644 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


“ I am  inclined,  indeed,  to  be  of  Emily’s  opinion,”  said  Mrs.  Rush- 
brook.  ‘‘I  think  the  monster  who  spread  such  a snare  for  h«r 
destruction,  traduced  Miss  Donald,  in  order  to  drive  her  from  those 
who  would  protect  her  from  his  schemes.” 

“Would  to  heaven  the  truth  of  your  conjectures  could  be  proved,” 
exclaimed  Sir  Charles.  Again  he  approached  the  couch:  Amanda 
remained  in  the  same  attitude,  but  seeing  her  eyes  open,  he  took  her 
cold  hand,  and  in  a soothing  voice  assured  her  she  was  safe ; but  the 
assurance  had  no  effect  on  her ; hers,  like  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death, 
was  insensible  of  sound ; a faint  spark  of  life  seemed  only  quivering 
through  her  woe- worn  frame.  “She  is  gone!”  cried  Sir  Charles, 
pressing  her  hands  between  his ; “ she  is  gone,  indeed ! Oh ! sweet 
Amanda ! the  mortal  bounds  that  enclose  thy  afflicted  spirit  will  soon 
be  broken.” 

“I  trust  not,  sir,”  exclaimed  Captain  Rushbrook;  his  wife  and 
daughter  were  unable  to  speak : “ in  my  opinion  she  had  better  be 
removed  to  bed.” 

Amanda  was  accordingly  carried  to  a chamber,  and  Sir  Charles 
remained  in  the  drawing  room  till  Mrs.  Rushbrook  had  returned  to 
it.  She  informed  him  Miss  Donald  continued  in  the  same  state.  lie 
desired  a physician  might  be  sent  for,  and  departed  in  inexpressible 
dejection. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

Love,  gratitude,  and  pity  wept  at  once. 

Thomson. 

W E shall  now  account  for  the  incidents  in  the  last  chapter.  Amanda’s 
letter  to  the  Rushbrooks,  filled  them  with  surprise  and  consternation. 
Mrs.  Rushbrook  directly  repaired  to  Mrs.  Connel,  who,  without  hesi- 
tation, gave  it  as  her  opinion,  that  the  whole  was  a fabrication, 
invented  by  malice  to  ruin  Sipthorpe  in  their  opinion,  or  else  by  envy 
to  prevent  their  enjoying  the  good  fortune  which  he  offered  to  their 
acceptance.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  was  inclined  to  be  of  the  same  opinion; 
her  mind  was  sensibly  affected  by  the  favours  Sipthorpe  had  conferred 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


545 


on  her  family,  and  yielding  to  its  gratitude,  she  resolved  to  be  gnideo 
implicitly  by  her  friend,  who  advised  her  to  show  the  letter  to  him 
Bhe  considered  this  as  the  best  measure  she  could  pursue : if  innocent, 
he  would  be  pleased  by  the  confidence  reposed  in  his  honour ; if  guilty, 
his  confusion  must  betray  him.  But  Belgrave  was  guarded  against 
detection;  his  servant  had  seen  Amanda  as  she  was  alighting  from 
the  coach  the  evening  she  arrived  in  town. — He  inquired  of  the  maid 
concerning  her,  and  learned  that  she  was  to  lodge  m the  house,  and 
go  by  her  assumed  name.  These  circumstances  he  related  to  his 
master  the  moment  he  returned  home,  who  was  transported  at  the 
intelligence;  from  her  change  of  name,  he  supposed  her  not  only  in 
deep  distress,  but  removed  from  the  protection  of  her  friends,  and  ho 
determined  not  to  lose  so  favourable  an  opportunity  as  the  present  for 
securing  her  in  his  power.  He  instantly  resolved  to  relinquish  his 
designs  on  Emily ; designs  which  her  beautiful  simplicity  and  desti- 
ute  condition  had  suggested,  and  to  turn  all  his  thoughts  on  Amanda, 
who  had  ever  been  the  first  object  of  his  wishes.  His  pride,  as  well 
as  love,  was  interested  in  again  ensnaring  her,  as  he  had  been  morti- 
fied by  her  so  successfully  baffling  all  his  stratagems.  He  knew  not 
of  the  manner  she  had  left  his  house;  half  distracted  at  what  he  sup- 
posed her  escape  from  it,  he  had  followed  her  to  Ireland,  and  remained 
incognito  near  the  convent,  till  the  appearance  of  Mortimer  convinced 
him  any  schemes  he  formed  against  her  must  prove  abortive ; but  to 
concert  a plan  about  securing  her  required  some  deliberation ; ere  he 
could  devise  one,  he  was  summoned  to  Mrs.  Connel’s  parlour  to 
peruse  the  letter,  and  from  the  hand,  as  well  as  purport,  instantly 
knew  Amanda  to  be  its  author.  With  the  daring  effrontery  of  vice, 
he  directly  declared  she  was  a discarded  mistress  of  his,  who  from 
jealousy  had  taken  this  step,  to  prevent,  if  possible,  his  union.  He 
assured  them  her  real  name  was  not  Donald,  bid  them  tax  her  with 
that  deceit,  and  judge  from  her  confusion  whether  she  was  not  guilty 
of  that,  as  well  as  everything  else  he  alleged  against  her.  His 
unembarrassed  manner  had  the  appearance  of  innocence  to  his  too 
credulous  auditors,  prejudiced  as  they  were  already  in  his  favour,  and 
in  their  minds  he  was  now  fully  acquitted  of  his  imputed  crimes. 
He  was  now  careless  whether  Amanda  saw  him  or  not  (for  he  had 
before  stolen  into  the  house,)  being  well  convinced  nothing  she 
could  allege  against  him  would  be  credited.  When  night  approached 


546 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET, 


Without  bringing  her,  he  grew  alarmed,  lest  he  had  lost  her  again. 
At  las't  her  return  relieved  him  from  his  fear.  The  conversation  which 
passed  in  the  parlour  he  heard  through  means  of  his  servant,  who  had 
listened  to  it.  The  mention  of  Amanda’s  removal  in  the  morning 
made  him  immediately  consult  tliis  servant  about  measures  for 
securing  her,  and  he,  with  the  assistance  of  the  maid,  contrived  the 
scheme  which  has  already  been  related,  having  forged  the  letter  in 
Emily’s  name.  But  how  inadequate  is  language  to  describe  the  rage 
that  took  possession  of  his  soul,  when,  going  at  the  appointed  hour 
to  carry  Amanda  ofl^  lie  found  her  already  gone!  He  raved,  cursed, 
stamped,  and  accused  the  woman  and  his  servant  of  being  privy  to 
her  escape.  In  vain  Mrs.  Deborah  told  him  of  the  trick  she  had 
played  on  her,  and  how  she  had  been  obliged  to  get  into  the  house 
through  the  window.  He  continued  his  accusations,  which  so  pro^ 
yoked  his  servant,  conscious  of  their  unjustness,  that  he  at  last 
replied  to  them  with  insolence.  This,  in  the  present  state  of  Bel- 
grave’s  mind,  was  not  to  be  borne,  and  he  immediately  struck  him 
over  the  forehead  with  his  sword,  and  with  a violence  which  felled 
him  to  the  earth.  Scarcely  had  he  obeyed  ere  he  repented  this 
impulse  of  passion,  which  seemed  attended  with  fatal  consequences, 
for  the  man  gave  no  symptoms  of  existence.  Consideration  for  his 
own  safety  was  more  prevalent  in  his  own  mind  than  any  feelings  of 
humanity,  and  he  instantly  rushed  from  the  house,  ere  the  woman 
was  sufficiently  recovered  from  her  horror  and  amazement,  to  be  able 
to  call  to  the  other  servants,  as  she  afterwards  did,  to  stop  him.  He 
fled  to  town,  and  hastened  to  an  hotel  in  Pall-mall,  from  whence  he 
determined  to  hire  a carriage  for  Dover,  and  thence  embark  for  the 
continent.  Ascending  the  stairs  he  met  a man  of  all  others  he 
would  have  wished  to  avoid,  namely.  Sir  -Charles  Bingley.  He 
started,  but  it  was  too  late  to  retreat.  He  then  endeavoured  to 
shake  off*  his  embarrassment,  from  a faint  hope  that  Sir  Charles  had 
not  heard  of  his  villainous  designs  upon  Miss  Kushbrook;  but  this 
hope  vanished  the  moment  Sir  Charles  addressed  him,  who,  with 
coldness  and  contempt  said,  “he  would  be  glad  to  speak  to  him  for  a 
few  minutes;’^  but  ere  we  relate  their  conversation  it  is  necessary  to 
relate  a few  particulars  of  the  Rushbrooks. 

Captain  Bushbrook,  from  knowing  more  of  the  deceits  of  mankind 
-ihan  his  wife,  w^as  less  credulous;  the  more  he  reflected  the 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


647 


letter,  the  more  he  felt  donhts  obtiuding  on  his  mind;  and  he 
resolved  sooner  to  forfeit  the  friendship  of  Sipthorpe  than  permit  any 
farther  intercourse  betweeen  him  and  his  daughter  till  those  doubts 
were  removed.  He  sent  his  son  to  Sit  Charles’s  agent,  and  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  he  was  then  in  town,  and  lodged  at  an  hotel  in 
Pall-mall.  He  immediately  wrote  to  Sir  Charles,  and  requested  to 
see  him  whenever  he  was  at  leisure ; adding,  as  he  was  well  convinced 
his  benevolence  would  excuse  the  liberty  he  had  taken,  when  informed 
of  the  purpose  for  which  his  visit  was  requested.  Sir  Charles  w^as 
fortunately  within,  and  directly  attended  little  Eushbrook  to  the 
prison.  The  letter  had  filled  him  with  surprise,  but  that  surprise 
gave  way  the  moment  he  entered  the  wretched  apartment  of  Eush- 
brook, to  the  powerful  emotions  of  pity;  a scene  more  distressing  ho 
had  never  seen,  or  could  not  have  conceived.  He  saw  the  emaciated 
form  of  the  soldier,  for  such  his  dress  announced  him,  seated  beside  a 
dying  fire,  his  little  children  surrounding  him,  whose  faded  counte- 
nances denoted  their  keen  participation  of  his  grief,  and  the  sad  part- 
ner of  his  misery,  bending  her  eyes  upon  those  children  with  mingled 
love  and  sorrow. 

Eushbrook  was  unable  to  speak  for  a few  minutes  after  his  entrance. 
When  he  recovered  his  voice  he  thanked  him  for  the  kind  attention 
he  had  paid  his  request,  briefiy  informed  him  of  the  motives  for  that 
request,  and  ended  by  putting  Amanda’s  letter  into  his  hand.  Sir 
Charles  perused  it  with  horror  and  amazement : “ Gracious  heaven  1” 
he  exclaimed,  “what  a monster!  I know  not  the  lady  who  has 
referred  you  to  me,  but  I can  testify  the  truth  of  her  allegations.  I 
am  shocked  to  think  such  a monster  as  Belgrave  exists.” 

Shocked  at  the  idea  of  the  destruction  she  was  so  near  devoting  her 
daughter  to,  disappointed  in  the  hopes  she  entertained  of  having  hei 
family  liberated  from  prison,  and  struck  with  remorse  for  her  conduct 
to  Amanda,  Mrs.  Eushbrook  feel  fainting  to  the  floor,  overpowered 
by  her  painful  emotions.  Sir  Charles  aided  in  raising  her  from  it, 
for  the  trembling  hand  of  Eushbrook  refused  its  assistance.  “Un- 
happy  woman!”  he  exclaimed,  “ the  disappointment  of  her  hopes  is 
too  much  for  her  feeble  frame.”  Water,  tlie  only  restorative  in  the 
room,  being  sprinkled  in  her  face,  she  slowly  revived,  and  the  first 
object  she  beheld  was  the  pale  and  weeping  Emily  whom  her  fatlier 
had  insisted  on  being  brought  to  the  prison.  “ Oh!  my  child,”  she 


548 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


cried,  clasping  lier  to  her  bosom,  ‘‘  can  you  forgive  the  mother  who 
was  so  near  devoting  you  to  destruction  ? Oh ! my  children,  for  your 
sake,  how  near  was  I sacrificing  this  dear,  this  precious  girl ! I blush, 
I shudder,  when  I reflect  on  my  conduct  1?o  the  unhappy  young  crea- 
ture, who,  like  her  guardian  angel,  interposed  hetwen  my  child  and 
ruin  ; but  these  dreary  walls,”  she  continued,  bursting  into  an  agony 
of  tears,  “which  we  must  not  hope  to  pass,  will  hide  my  shame  and 
sorrow  together!” 

“ Do  not  despair,  my  dear  madam,”  said  Sir  Charles,  in  the  soft 
accent  of  benevolence ; “ nor  do  you,”  continued  he,  turning  to  Rush- 
l^rook,  “ deem  me  impertinent  in  inquiring  into  these  sorrows.”  His 
accent,  his  manner  were  so  soothing,  that  these  children  of  misery, 
who  had  long  been  strangers  to  the  voice  of  kindness,  gave  him,  with 
tears  and  sighs,  a short  relation  of  their  sorrows.  He  heaid  them 
with  deep  attention,  and  when  he  departed  gave  them  such  a smile  as 
we  may  suppose  would  beam  from  an  angel,  if  sent  by  heaven  to 
pour  the  balm  of  comfort  and  mercy  over  the  sorrows  of  a bursting 
heart. 

He  returned  early  in  the  morning ; how  bright,  how  animated  was 
his  countenance ! 0 ye  sons  of  riot  and  extravagance  I ye  children 

of  dissipation ! never  did  ye  experience  a pleasure  equal  to  his,  when 
he  entered  the  apartment  of  Rushbrook,  to  inform  him  he  was  free ; 
when  in  the  impassioned,  yet  faltering  accents  of  sensibility,  he  com- 
municated the  joyful  tidings,  and  heard  the  little  children  repeat  his 
words,  while  their  parents  gazed  on  each  other  with  surprise  and 
rapture. 

Rushbrook  at  length  attempted  to  pour  out  the  fulness  of  his  heart, 
but  Sir’ Charles  stopped  him.  “Blessed  with  a fortune,”  cried  he, 
“ beyond  my  wants,  to  what  nobler  purpose  could  superfluous  wealth 
be  devoted  than  to  the  enlargement  of  a man  who  has  served  his 
country,  and  who  has  a family,  which  he  may  bring  up  to  act  as  he 
has  done?  May  the  restoration  of  liberty  be  productive  of  every 
happiness  I your  prison  gates,  I rejoice  to  repeat  it,  are  open ; may 
the  friendship  which  commenced  within  these  walls  be  as  lasting  as 
our  lives !”  To  dwell  longer  on  the  subject  is  unnecessary.  The 
transported  family  were  conveyed  to  Mrs.  Connel’s,  where  he  had 
been  the  preceding  night  to  order  every  thing  for  their  reception. 
He  then  inquired  about  Sipthorpe,  or  rather  Belgrave,  whom  ho 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


54D 


meant  to  upbraid  for  his  cruel  design  against  Miss  Rushbrook ; but 
Belgrave,  as  soon  as  his  plan  was  settled  about  Amanda,  had  quitted 
Mrs.  Connel’s.  The  joy  of  the  Rushbrooks  was  greatly  damped  the 
next  morning  on  hearing  of  the  secret  departure  of  Amanda.  Wliat 
Belgrave  had  said  against  her  they  never  would  have  credited,  but 
for  the  appearance  of  mystery  which  enveloped  her ; still  her  amiable 
attention  to  them  merited  their  truest  gratitude;  they  wished  to 
have  expressed  that  gratitude  to  her,  and  offer  her  their  services. 
Much  as  appearances  were  against  Amanda,  yet  from  the  very 
moment  Mrs.  Rushbrook  declared  it  her  idea  that  Belgrave  had  tra- 
duced her  for  the  purpose  of  depriving  her  of  protection,  a similar 
idea  started  in  Sir  Charles’s  mind,  and  he  resolved  to  seek  Belgrave, 
and  never  rest  till  he  had  discovered  whether  there  was  any  truth  in 
his  assertions  against  Amanda.  Their  meeting  at  the  hotel  was 
considered  as  fortunate  as  unexpected  by  him ; yet  could  he  not  dis- 
guise for  a moment  the  contempt  his  character  inspired  him  with. 
H©  reproached  him  as  soon  as  they  entered  an  apartment  for  his  base 
designs  against  Miss  Rushbrook  ; designs  in  every  respect  degrading 
to  his  character,  since  he  knew  the  blow  he  levelled  at  the  peace  of 
her  father  could  not,  from  the  unfortunate  situation  of  that  father,  bo 
resented.  “You  are,”  continued  Sir  Charles,  “ITot  only  the  viola- 
tor, but  the  defamer  of  female  innocence ; I am  well  convinced,  from 
reflection  on  past  and  present  circumstances,  that  your  allegations 
igainst  Miss  Fitzalan  were  as  false  as  vile.” 

“You  may  doubt  them.  Sir  Charles,”  replied  Belgrave,  “if  it  is 
<igreeable  to  you ; but  yet,  as  a friend,  I advise  you  not  to  let  every 
one  know  that  you  are  her  champion.” 

“Oh,  Belgrave!”  cried  Sir  Charles,  “can  you  think  without 
remorse  of  having  destroyed  not  only  the  reputation  but  the  exist- 
ence of  an  amiable  young  creature  ?” 

“The  existence!”  repeated  Belgrave,  starting,  and  with  a kind  of 
horror  in  his  look ; “ what  do  you  mean !” 

“ I mean  that  Amanda  Fitzalan,  involved  through  your  means  in  a 
variety  of  wretchedness  she  was  unable  to  support,  is  now  on  her 
death-bed!”  Belgrave  changed  colour,  trembled,  and  in  an  agitated 
voice  demanded  an  explanation  of  Sir  Charles’s  words. 

Sir  Charles  saw  his  feelings  were  touched,  and  trusting  they  would 
produce  the  discovery  he  wished,  briefly  gave  him  the  particulars  ho 
asked  for. 


550 


CHILDREN  OFTHE  ABBEY. 


Amanda  was  tlie  only  woman  that  had  ever  really  tonched  the  heart 
of  Belgrave.  His  mind,  filled  with  horror,  and  enervated  with  fear,  at 
the  idea  of  the  crime  he  had  recently  committed,  could  make  no  oppo- 
sition to  the  grief  he  experienced  on  hearing  of  her  situation ; a grief 
heightened  almost  to  distraction,  by  reflecting  that  he  was  accessory 
to  it.  “Dying!”  he  repeated,  “Amanda  Fitzalan  dying  I But  she 
will  be  happy ; hers  will  be  a pure  and  ministering  spirit  in  Heaven, 
while  mine  lies  howling ; the  angels  are  not  purer  in  mind  and  per- 
son than  she  is !” 

“ Then  you  are  an  execrable  villain !”  exclaimed  Sir  Charles,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  sword. 

“Strike!”  exclaimed  Belgrave,  with  an  air  of  wildness,  “death 
will  rid  me  of  horrors ; death  from  you  will  be  better  than  the  igno- 
minious one  wliich  now  stares  me  in  the  face ; for  I have — oh ! horri- 
ble— this  night  I have  committed  murder!” 

Astonished  and  dismayed.  Sir  Charles  gazed  on  him  with  earnest- 
ness. 

“It  is  true!”  continued  he  in  the  same  wild  manner,  “it  is  true! 
therefore  strike ! but  against  you  I will  not  raise  my  hand ; it  were 
impious  to  touch  a life  like  yours,  consecrated  to  the  purposes  of  vir- 
tue; no,  I would  not  deprive  the  wretched  of  their  friend.” 

Sir  Charles,  stiU  shuddering  at  his  words,  demanded  an  explanation 
of  them ; and  the  tortured  soul  of  Belgrave,  as  if  happy  to  meet  any 
one  it  could  confide  in,  after  a little  hesitation,  divulged  at  once  its 
crimes  and  horrors.  “ Ho,”  cried  Sir  Charles,  when  he  had  concluded, 
“ to  raise  a hand  against  him  over  whom  the  arm  of  justice  is 
uplifted,  were  cruel  as  well  as  cowardly : go  then,  and  may  repent- 
ance, not  punishment,  overtake  you.”  To  describe  the  raptures  Sir 
Ciiarles  experienced  at  the  acquittal  of  Amanda  is  impossible ; not  a 
fond  father  rejoicing  over  the  restored  fame  of  a darling  child,  could 
experience  more  exquisite  delight.  The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  he 
thought  it  possible  he  could  gain  admittance,  he  liastened  to  Mrs. 
Connel’s  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  from  Mrs.  Kushbrook 
that  Amanda  was  then  in  a sweet  sleep,  from  which  the  most  salutary 
consequences  might  be  expected.  With  almost  trembling  impatience, 
he  communicated  the  transports  of  his  heart,  and  his  auditors 
rejoiced  as  much  at  these  transports  on  Amanda’s  account  as  on  his, 
Mrs.  Bushbrook  and  Emily  had  sat  up  with  lier  the  preceding  night, 
wliich  she  passed  in  a most  restless  manner,  without  any  perception 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


551 


ot  surrounding  objects.  Towards  morning  she  fell  into  a profound 
Bleep,  which  they  trusted  would  recruit  her  exhausted  frame.  Mrs. 
Rushbrook  then  withdrew  to  her  husband.  It  was  past,  noon  ere 
Amanda  awoke. — At  first  a pleasing  languor  was  diffused  through 
her  frame,  which  prevented  her  from  having  an  idea  of  her  situation ; 
but  gradually  her  recollection  returned,  and  with  it  anxiety  to  know 
where  she  was.  She  remembered  to  the  moment  she  had  met  Sir 
Charles,  but  no  farther.  She  gently  opened  the  curtain,  and  beheld, 
oh,  how  great  the  pleasure  of  that  moment ! Emily  sitting  by  the 
bed-side,  who  instantly  rising,  kissed  her  cheek  in  a transport  of 
affection,  and  inquired  how  she  did.  Oh!  how  delightful,  how 
Boothiug  was  that  gentle  voice  to  the  ears  of  Amanda  I the  softest' 
music  could  not  have  been  more  grateful,  her  heart  vibrated  to  it 
with  an  exquisite  degree  of  pleasure,  and  her  eyes  feasted  on  the  rays 
of  benevolence  which  streamed  from  those  of  Emily.  At  last,  in  a 
faint  voice,  she  said:  “ I am  sure  I am  safe  since  I am  with  Emily.” 

Mrs.  Rushbrook  entered  at  that  instant : her  delight  at  the  restored 
faculties  of  Amanda  was  equal  to  her  daughter’s ; yet  the  recollection 
of  her  own  conduct  made  her  almost  reluctant  to  approach  her.  At 
last  advancing,  “I  blush,  yet  I rejoice,  oh!  how  truly  rejoice,  to 
behold  you,”  she  exclaimed:  “that  I could  be  tempted  to  harbour  a 
doubt  against  you  fills  me  with  regret,  and  the  vindication  of  your 
innocence  can  scarcely  yield  you  more  pleasure  than  it  yields  me.” 

“The  vindication  of  my  innocence!”  repeated  Amanda,  raising  her 
head  from  the  pillow  : “ Oh,  gracious  heaven ! is  it  then  vindicated  ? 
Tell  me,  I conjure  you  how,  and  by  what  means.” 

Mrs.  Rushbrook  hastened  to  obey  her,  and  related  all  she  had  heard 
from  Sir  Charles ; the  restoration  of  her  fame  seemed  to  re-animato 
the  soul  of  Amanda,  yet  tears  burst  from  her,  and  she  trembled  with 
emotion.  Mrs.  Rushbrook  was  alarmed,  and  endeavoured  to  compose 
her. 

“ Do  not  be  uneasy,”  said  Amanda ; “these  tears  will  never  injure 
me ; it  is  long — it  is  very  long  since  I have  shed  tears  of  joy !”  She 
implored  Heaven’s  choicest  blessings  on  Sir  Charles  for  his  generosity 
to  her,  liis  benevolence  to  the  Rushbrooks.  Her  heart,  relieved  of  a 
heavy  burden  of  anxiety  on  her  account,  now  grew  more  anxious 
than  ever  to  learn  something  of  her  poor  Oscar,  and,  notwithstanding 
Mi>>.  Rnsh])rook’s  entreaties  to  the  contrary,  who  fear'd  she  Wits^ 


552 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


exerting  herself  beyond  her  strength,  she  arose  in  the  afternoon,  foi 
the  purpose  of  going  to  the  drawing-room,  determined,  as  Sir  Charles’s 
generous  conduct  merited  her  confidence,  to  relate  to  him,  as  well  as 
Mr.  Rushbrook,  the  motives  which  had  brought  her  to  town,  the 
particulars  of  her  life  necessary  to  be  known,  and  to  request  their 
assistance  in  trying  to  learn  intelligence  of  her  brother.  Emily 
helped  her  to  dress,  and  supported  her  to  the  drawing-room.  Sir 
Charles  had  continued  in  the  house  the  whole  day,  and  met  her  as 
she  entered  with  mingled  love  and  pity,  for  in  her  feeble  form,  her 
faded  cheek,  he  witnessed  the  ravages  of  grief  and  sickness  ; his  eyes 
more  than  his  tongue  expressed  his  feelings,  yet  in  the  softest  accent 
of  tenderness,  did  he  pour  forth  those  feelings,  whilst  his  hand 
trembled  as  it  pressed  hers  to  his  bosom. 

‘‘My  feelings.  Sir  Charles,”  said  she,  “cannot  be  expressed;  but 
my  gratitude  to  you  will  not  cease  but  with  my  existence.” 

Sir  Charles  besought  her  to  be  silent  on  such  a subject.  “He  was 
selfish,”  he  said,  “ in  every  thing  he  did  for  her,  for  on  her  happiness 
his  depended.” 

Rushbrook  approached  to  ofier  his  congratulations.  He  spoke  of 
her  kindness,  but  like  Sir  Charles,  the  subject  was  painful  to  her,  and 
diopped  at  her  request.  The  idea  of  being  safe,  the  soothing  atten- 
tion she  experienced,  gave  to  her  mind  a tranquillity  it  had  long  been 
a stranger  to,  and  she  looked  back  on  her  past  dangers  but  to  enjoy 
more  truly  her  present  security.  As  she  witnessed  the  happiness  of 
the  Rushbrooks,  she  could  scarcely  forbear  applauding  aloud  the 
author  of  that  happiness ; but  she  judged  of  his  heart  by  her  own, 
and  therefore  checked  herself  by  believing  he  would  prefer  the  silent 
plaudits  of  that  heart  to  any  praise  whatsoever.  After  tea,  when 
only  Sir  Charles,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook,  and  Emily  were  present, 
she  entered  upon  the  afiairs  she  wished  to  communicate.  They  heard 
her  with  deep  attention,  wonder  and  pity,  and  when  she  concluded, 
both  Sir  Charles  and  Rushbrook  declared  their  readiness  to  serve 
her.  The  latter,  who  had  betrayed  strong  emotions  during  her  narra^ 
tive,  assured  her,  “ he  doubted  not,  nay,  he  was  almost  convinced,  ho 
should  soon  be  able  to  procure  her  intelligence  of  her  brother.” 

This  was  a sweet  assurance  to  the  heart  of  Amanda,  and  cheered 
by  it  she  soon  retired  to  bed.  Her  strength  being  exhausted  by 
speaking,  she  sunk  into  a tranquil  slumber,  and  next  morning  slie 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5C3 


arose  to  breakfast.  “ Well,”  said  Eusbbrook  to  her,  as  they  sat  at  it, 
“ I told  you  last  night  I should  soon  be  able  to  procure  you  intelli- 
gence of  your  brotlier,  and  I was  not  mistaken.” 

“Oh,  Heavens!”  cried  Amanda,  in  trembling  emotion,  “have  you 
really  heard  anything  of  him?” 

“ Be  composed,  my  dear  girl,”  said  he,  taking  her  hand  in  the  most 
soothing,  most  affectionate  manner,  “ I have  heard  of  him,  but  ” 

“ But  what  ?”  interrupted  Amanda,  with  increased  emotion. 

“ Why,  that  he  has  experienced  some  of  the  trials  of  life ; but  let 
the  reflection  that  those  trials  are  over,  prevent  your  suffering  pain 
by  hearing  of  them.” 

“ Oh ! tell  me,  I entreat,”  said  Amanda,  “ where  he  is.  Tell  me  I 
conjure  you,  shall  I see  him  ?” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Rushbrook,  “ you  shall  see  him : to  keep  you  no 
longer  in  suspense,  in  that  dreary  prison  from  which  I have  just  been 
released,  he  has  languished  for  many  months. 

“Oh  1 my  brother,.”  exclaimed  Amanda,  while  tears  gushed  from 
her. 

“ I knew  not,”  continued  Rushbrook,  “ from  the  concealment  of 
your  name,  that  he  was  your  brother  till  last  night.  I then  told  Sir 
Charles,  and  he  is  gone  this  morning  to  him ; but  you  must  expect 
to  see  him  somewhat  altered.  The  restoration  of  liberty,  and  the 
possession  of  fortune,  will  no  doubt  soon  re-establish  his  health. 
Hark!  I think  I hear  a voice  on  the  stairs.” 

Amanda  started,  arose,  attempted  to  move,  but  sunk  again  upon 
her  chair.  The  door  opened,  and  Sir  Charles  entered,  followed  by 
Oscar.  Though  prepared  for  an  alteration  in  his  looks,  she  was  not 
by  any  means  prepared  for  the  alteration  which  struck  her  tho 
moment  she  beheld  him : pale  and  thin,  even  to  a degree  of  emacia- 
tion ; he  was  dressed,  or  rather  wrapped,  in  an  old  regimental  great 
coat,  his  fine  hair  wildly  dishevelled.  As  he  approached  her 
Amanda  rose. 

“ Amanda,  my  sister,”  said  he,  in  a faint  voice.  She  tottered  for- 
ward, and  falling  upon  his  bosom,  gave  way  in  tears  to  the  mingled 
joy  and  anguish  of  the  moment.  Oscar  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  Ho 
ga-zed  on  her  with  the  fondest  rapture;  yet  a rapture  suddenly 
checked  by  surveying  the  alteration  in  her  appearance,  which  was  as 
striking  to  him  as  his  was  to  her.  Her  pale  and  woe- worn  counto 

24 


554 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY» 


nance,  her  sable  dress,  at  once  declared  her  sufferings,  and  brougljt 
most  painfully  to  recollection  the  irreparable  loss  they  had  sustained 
since  their  last  meeting. 

“Oh,  my  father!”  groaned  Oscar,  unable  to  control  the  strong 
emotions  of  his  mind;  “Oh,  my  father!  when  last  we  met  we  were 
blessed  with  your  presence.”  He  clasped  Amanda  closer  to  bis  heart 
as  he  spoke,  as  if  doubly  endeared  to  her  by  her  desolate  situation. 

“To  avoid  regretting  him,  is  indeed  impossible,”  said  Amanda; 
“yet  had  he  lived,  what  tortures  would  have  wrung  his  heart  in 
witnessing  the  unhappiness  of  his  children,  when  he  had  not  the 
power  of  removing  it  1” 

“ Come,”  cried  Captain  Eushbrook,  whose  eyes,  like  those  of  every 
person  present,  confessed  his  sympathetic  feelings,  “let  us  not  cloud 
present  blessings  by  the  retrospect  of  past  misfortunes.  In  this  life 
we  must  all  expect  to  meet  with  such  losses  as  you  lament.” — ^As 
soon  as  Oscar  and  Amanda  grew  composed,  they  were  left  to  them- 
selves, and  Oscar  then  satisfied  the  anxious  and  impatient  heart  of 
his  sister,  by  informing  her  of  all  that  had  befallen  him.  He  began 
with  his  attachment  for  Adela,  and  the  disappointmeirtr'of  this  attach- 
ment ; but  as  that  part  of  the  story  is  already  known,  we  shall  pass 
it  over  in  silence,  and  merely  relate  the  occasion  of  his  quarrel  with 
Belgrave. 


OHAPTEE  LIV. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonour’d  dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their-  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply,  some  hoary  headed  swain  may  say. 

Oft  we  have  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  step  the  dews  away, 

. To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

1 LEFT  Enniskellen,  said  Oscar,  in  the  utmost  distress  of  mind ; for 
I left  it  with  the  idea  that  I might  no  more  beliold  Adela ; yet  dear 
and  precious  as  her  sight  was  to  my  soul,  I rejoiced  she  had  not 
accompanied  the  regiment,  since,  to  have  beheld  her  but  as  the  wife 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


565 


of  Belgrave,  would  liave  been  insupportable. — ^ETad  the  disappointment 
of  my  passion  been  occasioned  by  its  not  meeting  a return,  pride 
would  have  assisted  me  to  conquer  it ; but  to  know  it  was  tenderly 
returned,  at  once  cherished  and  if  possible,  increased  it. — The  idea  of 
the  happiness  I might  have  obtained,  rendered  me  insensible  of  any  1 
might  still  have  enjoyed.  I performed  the  duties  of  my  situation 
mechanically,  and  shunned  society  as  much  as  possible,  unable  to  bear 
the  raillery  of  my  gay  companions  on  my  melancholy. 

The  summer  you  came  to  Ireland,  the  regiment  removed  to  Bray, 
whose  romantic  situation  allowed  me  to  enjoy  many  delightful  and 
solitary  rambles.  It  was  there  a man  enlisted,  whose  manner  and 
appearance  were,  for  many  days,  subjects  of  surprise  and  conversation 
to  all : from  both  it  was  obvious  he  had  been  accustomed  to  one  of 
the  superior  situations  in  life.  A form  more  strikingly  elegant  I 
never  beheld ; the  officers  made  many  attempts  to  try  and  discover 
who  he  really  was,  but  he  evaded  all  their  inquiries,  yet  with  the 
utmost  agitation.  What  rendered  him,  if  possible,  more  interesting, 
was  his  being  accompanied  by  a young  and  lovely  woman,  who  like 
him,  appeared  sunk  beneath  her  original  state ; but  to  their  present 
one  both  conformed,  if  not  with  cheerfulness,  at  least  Avith  resignation. 

Mary  obtained  work  from  almost  all  the  officers.  Henry  was 
diligent  in  his  duties,  and  both  were  universally  admired  and  respected. 
Often  in  my  lonely  rambles  have  I surprised  this  unfortunate  pair, 
who,  it  was  evident,  like  me  sought  solitude  for  the  indulgence  of 
sorrow,  weeping  together,  as  if  o’er  the  remembrance  of  happier 
hours.  Often  have  I beheld  them  gazing,  with  mingled  agony  and 
tenderness,  on  the  infant  which  Mary  nursed,  as  if  shuddering  at  the 
idea  of  its  destiny. 

The  loveliness  of  Mary  was  too  striking  not  to  attract  the  notice  of 
Belgrave,  and  from  her  situation  he  flattered  himself  she  would  be  an 
easy  prey;  he  was,  however,  mistaken;  she  repulsed  his  overtures 
Avith  equal  abhorrence  and  indignation.  She  wished  to  conceal  them 
from  her  husband,  but  he  heard  of  them  through  the  means  of  his 
fellow-soldiers,  who  had  several  times  seen  the  colonel  folloAving  his 
Avife.  It  was  then  he  really  felt  the  bitterness  of  a servile  situation. 
Of  his  Avife  he  had  no  doubt ; she  had  already  given  him  a convincing 
proof  of  constancy,  but  he  dreaded  the  insults  she  might  receive  from 
the  colonel.  The  united  vigilance  of  both,  prevented,  hoAvever,  for 


550 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


some  time,  a repetition  of  those  insults.  Exasperated  by  thei? 
vigilance,  the  colonel  at  last  concerted  one  of  the  most  diabolical 
plans  which  could  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  man.  A party  of 
the  soldiers  were  ordered  to  the  sea-side,  to  watch  there  for  smuggled 
goods ; Henry  was  named  to  be  of  the  party,  but  when  the  soldiers 
were  drawA  out,  he  was  not  to  be  found.  Bclgrave’s  servant,  the 
vile  agent  of  his  master,  had  informed  him  that  the  colonel  meant  to 
take  advantage  of  his  absence,  and  visit  his  wife.  He,  trembling  for 
her  safety,  resolved  to  run  every  risk,  sooner  than  leave  her  unguard- 
ed, and  accordingly  absconded  till  the  departure  of  the  party.  The 
consequence  of  this  was,  that  on  liis  re-appearance,  he  was  put  under 
an  arrest  for  disobedience  of  orders,  tried  the  next  day,  and  sentenced 
to  be  flogged  on  the  following  one.  The  very  officers  that  passed  the 
sentence  regretted  it ; but  the  strictness  of  military  discipline  render- 
ed it  unavoidable. 

I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  situation  of  the  unhappy  young 
couple ; they  felt  for  each  other  more  than  for  themselves,  and  pride 
heightened  the  agonies  of  Henry. 

Pale,  weeping,  with  a distracted  air,  Mary  flew  to  my  apartment, 
and  sinking  at  my  feet,  with  uplifted  hands  besought  me  to  interpose 
in  favour  of  her  husband.  I raised  the  poor  mourner  from  tho 
ground,  and  assured  her,  yet  with  a sigh,  from  the  fear  of  proving 
unsuccessful,  that  I would  do  all  in  my  power  to  save  him.  I there- 
fore hastened  to  the  colonel  to  ask  for  another  that  favour  I should 
have  disdained  to  desire  for  myself.  But  to  serve  this  wretched 
couple,  I felt  I could  almost  humble  myself  to  the  earth. 

The  colonel  was  on  the  parade ; and,  as  if  aware  of  my  intention, 
appeared  sedulous  to  avoid  me.  But  I would  not  be  re^mlsed  by  this, 
and  following  him,  entreated  his  attention  for  a few  minutes. 

‘‘Dispatch  your  business  then  in  haste,  sir,”  said  he,  wdth  an 
unusual  haughtiness. 

“ I shall,  sir,”  cried  I,  endeavouring  to  repress  the  indignation  his 
manner  excited,  “ and  I also  hope  with  success.” 

“ What  is  your  business,  sir  ?”  demanded  he. 

“ ’Tis  the  business  of  humanity,”  I replied,  “ and  ’tis  only  for  others 
I could  ask  a favour.” 

I then  proceeded  to  mention  it.  Bilge  and  malice  inflamed  liia 
countenance  as  I spoke. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  557 

‘‘Never,”  exclaimed  be,  “sliall  the  wretch  receive  pardon  from 
me;  and  I am  astonished  at  your  presumption  in  ashing  it.” 

“ Yet  not  half  so  astonished,”  replied  I,  “as  I am  at  your  obduracy: 
— though  why  do  I say  so  ? from  your  past  actions,  I should  not  be 
surprised  at  any  you  may  now  commif.” 

His  passion  grew  almost  to  frenzy  ; he  asked  me  “ if  I knew  whoiii 
I was  addressing  ?” 

“ Too  well,”  I replied,  “ I know  I am  addressing  one  of  the 
. completest  villains  upon  earth.” 

He  raised  a small  rattan  he  held,  at  these  words,  in  a threatening 
manner ; I could  no  longer  oppose  my  indignation : I rushed  upon 
him,  wrested  it  from  his  hand,  broke  it,  and  flung  it  over  his  head. 

“ Now,”  cried  I,  laying  my  hand  upon  my  sword,  “ I am  ready  to 
give  you  the  satisfaction  you  may  desire  for  my  words — words,  whose 
truth  I will  uphold  with  my  life.” 

“ No,”  said  he,  with  the  coldness  of  deliberate  malice,  “ ’tis  a far 
diflferent  satisfaction  I shall  expect  to  receive.” 

Some  of  the  officers  had  by  this  time  gathered  round  us,  and 
attempted  to  interfere  ;•  but  he  commanded  their  silence  in  a haughty 
manner,  and  ordered  me  under  immediate  arrest. 

My  fate  I then  knew  decided,  but  I resolved  to  bear  that  fate  with 
fortitude,  nor  let  him  triumph  in  every  respect  over  me.  I was  con- 
fined to  my  room,  and  Henry  the  next  morning  was  brought  forth  to 
receive  his  punishment.  I will  not,  my  sister,  pain  your  gentle  heart, 
by  describing  to  you,  as  it  was  described  to  me  by  an  officer,  his 
parting  from  his  wflfe ; pride,  indignation,  tenderness,  and  pity,  were 
struggling  in  his  heart,  and  visible  in  his  countenance.  He  attempted 
to  resume  composure;  but  when  he  reached  the  destined  spot,  he 
could  no  longer  control  his  feelings : the  idea  of  being  exposed,  dis- 
graced, was  too  much  for  his  noble  soul:  the  paleness  of  his  face 
increased,  he  tottered,  he  fell  into  the  arms  of  a soldier  and  expired, 
groaning  forth  the  name  of  Mary. 

Four  days  after  this  melancholy  event,  a court  martial  was  held  on 
me,  when,  as  I expected,  I was  broken,  for  contempt  to  my  superior 
officer.  I retired  to  a little  solitary  inn  near  Bray,  in  a state  of  mind 
which  baffles  description,  destitute  of  friends  or  fortune. — I felt  at 
that  moment,  as  if  I had  no  business  in  the  Avorld. 

I was  followed  to  the  inn  by  a young  lieutenant,  with  whom  I had 


553  • 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


been  on  an  intimate  footing.  Tlio  grief  be  expressed  at  my  situation 
roused  me  from  almost  a stupefaction  that  was  stealing  on  me.  The 
voice  of  friendship  will  penetrate  the  deepest  gloom,  and  I felt  my 
sorrows  gradually  allayed  by  it.  He  asked  me,  “ Had  I fixed  on  any 
plans  for  myself?’’  I replied,  “ I had  not,  for  it  was  vain  to  fix  on 
plans  when  there  were  no  friends  to  support  them.”  He  took  my 
hand,  and  told  me  “ I was  mistaken ; in  a few  days  he  trusted  to 
i)rocure  me  letters  to  a gentleman  in  London,  who  had  considerable 
possessions  in  the  West  Indies,  if  such  a thing  was  agreeable  to  me.” 
It  was  just  what  I wished  for,  and  I thanked  him  with  the  sincerest 
gratitude. 

In  the  evening,  I received  a message  from  the  unfortunate  Mary, 
requesting  to  see  me  directly ; the  soldier  who  brought  it  said  she  was 
dying.  I hastened  to  her;  she  was  in  bed,  and  supported  by  a 
soldier’s  wife.  The  declining  sunbeams  stole  into  the  apartment,  and 
shed  a kind  of  solemn  glory  around  her.  The  beauty  that  had 
caused  her  misfortunes  was  faded,  but  she  looked  more  interesting 
than  when  adorned  with  that  bloom  of  beauty.  Sighs  and  tears 
impeded  her  words  for  some  minutes  after  I approached  her ; at  last, 
in  a faint  voice,  she  said  I sent  for  you,  sir,  because  I knew  your 
goodness,  your  benevolence,  would  excuse  the  liberty ; I knew  you 
would  think  that  no  trouble  which  would  soothe  the  last  sad  moments 
of  a wretched  woman.” 

She  then  proceeded  to  inform  me  of  the  motives  which  had  made 
her  send,  namely,  to  convey  her  infant  to  her  father,  a person  of  for- 
tune in  Dublin,  and  to  see  her  remains,  ere  I did  so,  laid  by  those  of 
her  husband’s. — Her  unfortunate  Henry,”  she  added,  “ had  been  son 
to  a respectable  merchant ; their  families  were  intimate,  and  an 
attachment  which  had  commenced  at  an  early  period  between  them, 
was  encouraged.  Henry’s  father  experienced  a sudden  reverse  of 
fortune,  and  hers,  in  consequence  of  it,  forbid  their  ever  thinking  more 
of  each  other ; but  they  could  not  obey  his  commands,  and  married 
clandestinely,  thus  forfeiting  the  favour  of  all  their  friends,  as  Henry’s 
thought  he  wanted  spirit,  and  hers  deemed  her  deficient  in  respect  to 
her  father,  they  were  therefore  compelled,  by  necessity,  to  a state  of 
life  infinitely  beneath  them:  but  in  my  grave,”  continued  she,  “I 
trust  my  father  will  bury  his  resentment,  and  protect,  this  little 
orphan.” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


669 


I promised  a religious  observance  to  all  lier  commands^  and  she 
expired  in  about  an  hour  after  I quitted  her.  Mournful  were  the 
tasks  she  enjoined  me.  I attended  her  remains  to  the  grave,  and  then 
conveyed  her  child  to  Dublin. 

Startled,  amazed,  distressed,  her  father  too  late  regretted  his  rigour, 
and  received  her  infant  to  his  arms  with  floods  of  repentant  tears. 

I now  procured  my  recommendatory  letters,  and  sailed  for  England, 
having  first  written  farewell  ones  to  my  father  and  Mrs.  Marlowe,  in 
which  I informed  both  I was  about  quitting  the  kingdom.  As  soon  as 
I had  procured  cheap  lodgings  in  London,  I repaired  to  the  gentleman 
to  whom  I was  recommended ; but  conceive  my  consternation  when 
I heard  he  was  himself  gone  to  the  West  Indies.  I turned  into  a 
coflee-house,  Avith  an  intention  of  communicating  this  intelligence  to 
my  friend.  While  tlie  waiter  Avas  getting  me  materials,  lor  writing, 
I took  up  a newspaper,  and  cast  my  eyes  carelessly  over  it.  Oh ! my 
Amanda,  Avhat  Avas  the  shock  of  that  moment,  when  I read  my 
father’s  death : grief  for  him,  anxiety  for  you,  both  assailed  my  heart 
too  poAverfully  for  its  feelings ; my  head  grew  giddy,  my  sight  failed 
me,  and  I fell  back  Avith  a deep  groan.  When  recovered,  by  the 
assistance  of  some  gentlemen,  I requested  a carriage  might  be  sent  for, 
but  I Avas  too  Aveak  to  Avalk  to  it.  On  returning  to  my  lodgings  I 
was  compelled,  to  go  to  bed,  from  Avdiich  I never  rose  for  a fortnight, 
during  my  illness,  all  the. little  money  I had  brought  along  with  me 
Avas  expended,  and  I was,  besides,  considerably  in  debt  with  the 
people  of  the  house,  for  procuring  me  necessaries. — When  able  to  sit 
up,  they  furnished  their  accounts,  and  I candidly  told  my  inability  to 
discharge  them ; in  consequence  of  this  I was  arrested,  and  suffered 
but  to  take  of  my  clothes  a change  or  two  of  linen.  The  horrors  of 
what  I imagined  would  be  a lasting  captivity,  were  heightened  by 
reflecting  on  your  unprotected  situation.  A thousand  times  I was  on 
the  point  of  Avriting,  to  inquire  into  that  situation,  but  still  checked 
myself  by  reflecting,  that  as  I could  not  aid  you,  I should  only  add  to 
any  griefs  you  might  be  oppressed  with  by  acquainting  yon  with 
mine.  The  company  of  Captain  Rushbrook  alleviated  in  some  degree 
the  dreariness  of  my  time.  I knew  I should  sustain  an  irreparable 
loss  in  losing  him,  but  I should  have  detested  myself  if  any  selfish 
motives  had  prevented  my  rejoicing  at  his  enlargement.  Oh!  little 
did  I think  his  liberation  AA^as  leading  the  way  to  mine-  Early  this 


600 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


morning  he  returned  and  introduced  Sir  Charles  Bingley  to  riie.— * 
Gently,  and  by  degrees,  they  broke  the  joyful  intelligence  they  had  to 
communicate ; with  truth  I can  aver,  that  the  announcement  of  a 
splendid  fortune  was  not  so  pleasing  to  my  heart,  as  the  mention  of 
my  sister’s  safety.  Of  my  poor  Adela,  I know  nothing  since  my  con- 
finement ; hut  I shudder  to  think  of  what  she  may  have  sulTered, 
from  being  left  solely  to  the  power  of  such  a man  as  Belgrave,  for  the 
good  old  general  died  soon  after  I left  Enniskellen. 

“ Kegret  not  too  bitterly,  my  dear  Oscar,”  said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  in 
cne  of  her  letters,  “ the  good  man’s  death,  rather  rejoice  he  was 
removed,  ere  his  last  hours  were  embittered  by  the  knowledge  of  his 
darling  child’s  unhappiness.” 

“ Oh  I my  sister,”  continued  Oscar,  with  a heavy  sigh ; while  tears 
fell  from  him  and  mingled  with  those  Amanda  was  shedding,  ‘‘  in  this 
world  we  must  have  something  to  wish  and  to  sigh  for.” 

Oscar  here  concluded  his  narrative,  with  such  an  expression  of 
melancholy,  as  gave  to  Amanda  the  sad  idea  of  his  passion  for 
Adela  being  incurable.  This  was  indeed  the  case ; neither  reason, 
time,  nor  absence  could  remove  or  lessen  it,  and  the  acquisition  of 
liberty  or  fortune  lost  half  their  value  by  brooding  over  her  loss. 

When  their  friends  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  again 
offered  their  congratulations,  Oscar’s  dejection  would  not  permit  him 
to  reply  to  them.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rushbrook  spoke  of  the  hap- 
piness he  might  now  enjoy,  he  listened  to  their  recapitulation  of  it  as 
a fulsome  tale,  to  which  his  heart  in  secret  gave  the  lie ; an  innate 
sense  of  piety,  however,  recalled  him  to  a proper  recollection  of  the 
blessings  so  unexpectedly  declared  to  be  his ; he  accused  himself  of 
ingratitude  to  heaven  in  yielding  to  murmurs,  after  so  astonishing  a 
reverse  in  his  situation:  perfect  happiness  he  had  early  been  taught, 
and  daily  experience  confirmed  the  truth  of  the  remark,  was  rarely  to 
be  met  with ; how  presumptuous  in  him,  therefore,  to  repine  at  the 
common  lot  of  humanity : to  be  independent,  to  have  the  means  of 
returning  the  obligations  Sir  Charles  Bingley  had  conferred  upon  him, 
to  be  able  to  comfort  and  provide  for  his  lovely  and  long  afflicted 
sister,  and  to  distribute  relief  among  the  children  of  indigence,  were 
all  blessings  which  would  shortly  be  his : blessings  which  demandetl 
his  warmest  gratitude,  and  for  which  he  now  raised  his  heart  with 
thankfulness  to  their  divine  dispenser.  Ilis  feelings  grew  composed ; 


CHILD  HEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


501 


a kind  of  soft  and  serene  melancholy  stole  over  his  mind . he  snD 
thought  of  Adela,  hut  not  with  that  kind  of  distracting  anguish  he 
had  so  recently  experienced ; it  was  with  that  kind  of  tender  regret 
which  a soul  of  sensibility  feels  when  refi<^cting  on  a departed  friend ; 
and  to  him  Adela  was  as  much  lost  as  if  already  shrouded  in  her 
native  clay.  Y es,  my  love,”  he  said,  as  if  her  gentle  spirit  had  already 
forsaken  its  earthly  mansion,  “in  that  happy  world  we  shall  ho 
re-united,  which  only  could  reward  thy  goodness  and  thy  suherings.” 

He  could  now  enter  into  conversation  with  his  friends  about  the 
measures  which  should  he  taken  to  forward  his  pretensions.  It  was 
the  opinion  of  Captain  Kushbrook  and  Sir  Charles,  that  to  make 
known  liis  claim  to  the  Marquis  of  Kosline,  was  all  that  was  neces^ 
sary ; a claim  they  did  not  imagine  he  would  or  coidd  dispute,  when 
such  proofs  of  its  validity  as  the  testimony  of  Lady  Dunreatli,  and 
the  will  could  be  produced : was  it  disputed,  it  was  then  time  enough 
to  apply  elsewhere  for  justice. 

Sir  Charles  knew  the  marquis  personally,  and  was  also  well 
acquainted  in  his  neighbourhood,  and  declared  he  would  accompany 
Oscar  to  Scotland.  Oscar  thanked  him  for  his  intention : the  support 
of  a person  so  well  known,  and  universally  esteemed,  he  was  con- 
scious would  essentially  serve  him. 

Sir  Charles  said  regimental  business  required  his  presence  in 
Ireland,  which,  however,  would  occasion  no  great  delay  ; as  he 
should  have  it  transacted  in  a few  days ; and  as  his  regiment  lay 
near  Donaghadee,  they  could  cross  over  to  Port  Patrick,  and  in  a few 
hours  after,  reach  the  Marquis  of  Posline’s  castle. 

The  day  after  the  next  he  had  fixed  for  commencing  his  journey, 
and  he  asked  Oscar  if  it  would  be  agreeable  and  convenient  to 
accompany  him  then.  Oscar  instantly  assured  him  it  was  both. 

• Amanda’s  heart  fiuttered  at  the  idea  of  a journey  to  Ireland  * it 
was  probable,  she  thought,  that  they  would  take  Wales  in  their  way ; 
and  her  soul  seemed  already  on  the  wing  to  accompany  them  thither, 
and  be  left  at  the  cottage  of  nurse  Edwin,  from  whence  she  could 
again  wander  through  the  shades  of  Tudor  Hall,  and  take  a last,  a 
sad  farew^ell  of  them ; for  she  solemnly  determined  from  the  moment 
she  should  be  apprised  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  return  to  England,  to 
visit  them  no  more ; in  such  a farewell  she  believed  she  shoull  find 
a melancholy  consolation  that  would  soothe  her  spirits.  She  imagined 


662 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


there  was  no  necessity  for  accompanying  her  brother  into  Scotland, 
and  except  told  there  was  an  absolute  one,  she  determined  to  decline 
the  journey,  if  she  should  be  asked  to  undertake  it.  To  go  to  the 
very  sjjot  where  she  should  hear  particulars  of  Lord  Mortimer’s 
nuptials  she  felt  would  be  too  much  for  her  fortitude,  and  might 
betray  to  her  brother  a secret  she  had  resolved  carefully  to  conceal 
from  him,  as  she  well  knew  the  pain  he  would  feel  from  knowing 
that  the  pangs  of  a hopeless  attachment  were  entailed  upon  her  life, 
and  would  defeat  whatever  flattering  hopes  he  entertained  for  her. 
Exclusive  of  the  above-mentioned  objects,  she  could  not  bear  to  go 
to  a place  where  she  might,  perhaps,  witness  the  pain  which  Lord 
Mortimer  must  unavoidably  feel  from  having  any  disgrace  befal  a 
family  he  was  so  nearly  connected  with.  0,  how  her  heart  swelled 
at  the  idea,  that  ere  Oscar  reached  Scotland,  the  interest  of  the 
Marquis  of  Kosline  and  Lord  Mortimer  would  be  but  one.  From 
her  apprehensions  of  being  asked  to  undertake  a journey  so  truly 
repugnant  to  her  feelings,  she  was  soon  relieved,  by  Oscar’s  declaring 
that  except  she  wished  it,  he  would  not  ask  her  to  take  so  fatiguing  a 
one,  particularly  as  her  presence  he  could  not  think  at  all  necessary. 

Sir  Charles  Bingley  assured  him  it  was  not,  though  in  a low  voice 
he  said  to  her,  “ it  was  against  his  own  interest  he  spoke.” 

She  would  now  have  mentioned  her  wish  of  going  to  "Wales,  had 
not  a certain  consciousness  checked  her ; she  feared  her  countenance 
would  betray  her  motive  for  such  a wish ; while  she  hesitated  about 
mentioning  it.  Sir  Charles  Bingley  told  Captain  Eushbrook  that  he 
had  applied  to  a fiaend  of  his,  in  power,  for  a place  for  him,  and  had 
been  fortunate  enongh  to  make  application  at  the  very  time  there 

was  one  of  tolerable  emolument  vacant  at ,,  about  seventy  miles 

distant  from  London,  whither  it  would  be  necessary  he  should  go  as 
soon  as  possible.  He  therefore  proposed  that  he  and  Mrs.  Eushbrook- 
should  begin  preparations  for  their  journey  the  ensuing  morning,  and 
exert  themselves  to  be  able  to  undertake  it  in  the  course  of  the  week. 

They  were  all  rapture  and  gratitude  at  this  intelligence,  which 
opened  a prospect  of  support  through  their  own  means,  and  the 
bread  of  indei)endence,  however  hardly  earned,  which  here  was  nut 
the  case,  must  ever  be  sweet  to  souls  of  sensibility. . 

Oscar  looked  with  anxiety  at  his  sister,  on  the  mentioning  of  the 
Eushbrooks’  removal  from  town,  as  if  to  say,  to  whose  care  then  car 


CHILDREN  or  THE  ABBEY 


663 


I intrust  you?  Mrs.  Euslibrook  interpreted  Lis  look,  and  instantly 
req'Qested  that  Miss  .Fitzalan  might  accompany  them,  declaring  Ler 
society  would  render  their  felicity  complete.  This  was  the  moment 
for  Amanda  to  speak ; she  took  courage,  and  mentioned  her  earnest 
wish  of  visiting  her  faithful  nurse,  declaring  she  could  not  lose  so 
favourable  an  opportunity  as  now  offered  for  the  gratification  of  that 
wish,  by  accompanying  her  brother  into  Wales.  Emily  pleaded,  but 
Amanda,  though  with  the  utmost  gratitude  and  tenderness,  as  if  to 
soften  her  refusal,  was  steady.  Oscar  was  pleased  with  his  sister’s 
determination,  as  he  trusted  going  into  what  might  be  called  her 
native  air,  joined  with  the  tender  care  of  nurse  Edwin,  would  recruit 
her  health. 

Sir  Charles  was  in  raptures  at  the  idea  of  having  her  company  so 
far  on  their  way. 

Every  thing  relative  to  the  proceedings  of  the  whole  party  was 
arranged  before  dinner,  at  which  Sir  Charles  presided,  giving  pleasure 
tc  ah  around  him  by  the  inefiable  sweetness  of  his  manners.  He 
withdrew  at  an  early  hour  at  night,  and  his  friends  soon  after  retired 
to  their  respective  chambers.  On  entering  the  breakfast  room  next 
morning  Amanda  found  not  only  her  brother  and  the  Rushbrooks, 
but  Sir  Charles  Bingley  there.  Immediately  after  breakfast  he  drew 
Oscar  aside,  and  in  the  most  delicate  terms  insisted  on  being  his 
banker  at  present,  to  which  Oscar  gratefully  consented.  As  soon  as 
this  affair  was  settled,  he  put  a note  into  his  sister’s  hands  to  pur- 
chase whatever  she  should  deem  necessary,  and  she  went  out  with 
the  Rushbrooks,  who  according  to  Sir  Charles’s  directions,  began 
preparations  for  their  journey  this  day.  After  their  return.  Sir 
Charles  found  an  opportunity  of  again  making  an  offer  of  his  hand  to 
Amanda. 

The  sincere  friendship  she  had  conceived  for  him  made  her 
determined  to  terminate  his  suspense  on  her  account.  “Was  I to 
accept  your  generous  proposal.  Sir  Charles,  said  she,  “ I should  be 
unworthy  of  that  esteem  which  it  will  be  my  pride  to  retain,  and  my 
pleasure  to  return,  because  be3^ond  esteem  I cannot  go  myself:  it  is 
due  to  3"Our  friendship,”  cried  she,  after  the  hesitation  of  a moment, 
whilst  a rosy  blush  stole  over  her  lovely  face,  and  as  quickly  faded 
from  It,  “ to  declare,  that  ere  I saw  yon,  the  fate  of  my  heart  was 
decided.” 


5G4 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Sir  CLarles  turned  pale ; he  grasped  her  hands  in  a kind  of  silent 
agony  to  his  bosom,  then  exclaimed,  “ I will  not.  Miss  Fitzalan,  after 
your  generous  confidence,  teaze  you  with  further  importunity.” 


CEAPTER  LV. 

1 eolitary  court 

The  inspiring  breeze. 

Thomson. 

The  ensuing  morning  Oscar,  Amanda,  and  Sir  Charles,  began  tlicir 
journey.  The  Rushbrooks  who  regarded  Amanda  as  the  cause  of 
their  present  happiness,  took  leave  of  her  with  a tender  sorrow  that 
deeply  affected  her  heart.  The  journey  to  Wales  w^as  pleasant  and 
expeditious,  the  weather  being  fine,  and  relays  of  horses  being  pro- 
vided at  every  stage.  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  they  arrived 
about  sunset,  at  the  village  which  lay  contiguous  to  Edwdn’s  abode; 
from  whence,  as  soon  as  they  had  taken  some  refreshment,  Amanda 
set  off,  attended  by  her  brother,  for  the  cottage,  having  ordered  her 
luggage  to  be  brought  after  her.  She  would  not  permit  the  attendance 
of  Sir  Charles,  and  almost  regretted  having  travelled  with  hin , as  she 
could  not  help  thinking  his  passion  seemed  increased  by  her  having 
done  so. — ‘‘How  dearly,”  cried  he,  as  he  handed  her  dowm  stairs, 
“shall  I pay  for  a few  short  hours  of  pleasure,  by  the  unceasing 
regret  their  remembrance  will  entail  upon  me.” 

Amanda  withdrew  her  hand,  and  bidding  him  farewell,  liurried  on. 
Oscar  proceeded  no  farther  than  the  lane  which  led  to  the  cottage 
with  his  sister.  Ee  had  no  time  to  answer  the  interrogations  which 
its  inhabitants  might  deem  themselves  privileged  to  make ; neither 
did  he  wish  his  present  situation  to  be  known  to  any  others  than 
those  already  acquainted  with  it ; Amanda  therefore  meant  to  say 
she  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  travelling  so  far  with  two  particu- 
lar friends,  who  were  going  to  Ireland.  Oscar  promised  to  write  to 
her  immediately  from  thence,  and  from  Scotland,  as  soon  as  he  had 
seen  the  marquis.  lie  gave  her  a thousand  charges  concerning  her 
health,  and  took  a tender  farewell.  From  his  too  miserable  dejection^ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5G5 


Aiimnda  rejoiced  she  iiad  not  revealed  her  own  sorrows  to  him.  Siie 
trusted  it  would  be  in  her  power,  by  soothing  attentions,  by  the 
thousand  little  nameless  oflSces  of  friendship,  to  alleviate  his ; to  pluck 
the  thorn  from  his  heart,  which  rankled  within  it,  was  beyond  her 
hopes : in  their  dispositions,  as  well  as  fates,  there  was  too  great  a 
similitude  to  expect  this. 

Amanda  lingered  in  the  walk  as  he  departed ; she  was  now  in  the 
very  spot  that  recalled  a thousand  fond  and  tender  remembrances ; 
it  was  here  she  had  given  a farewell  look  to  Tudor  Hall ; it  was  here 
her  father  had  taken  a last  look  at  the  spire  of  the  church  where  his 
beloved  wife  was  interred ; it  was  here  Lord  Mortimer  used  so  often 
to  meet  her;  her  soul  sunk  in  the  heaviest  sadness ; sighs  burst  from 
her  overcharged  heart,  and  with  difficulty  she  prevented  her  tears 
from  falling;  all  around  was  serene  and  beautiful,  but  neither  the 
serenity  nor  the  beauty  of  the  scene  could  she  now  enjoy;  the  plain- 
tive bleating  of  the  cattle  that  rambled  about  the  adjacent  hills,  only 
heightened  her  melancholy,  and  the  appearance  of  autumn,  which 
was  now  far  advanced,  only  made  her  look  back  to  the  happy  period 
■when  admiring  its  luxuriance  had  given  her  delight:  the  parting  sun- 
beams yet  glittered  on  the  windows  of  Tudor  Hall ; she  paused  invol- 
untarily to  contemplate  it ; hours  could  she  have  continued  in  the 
\ same  situation,  had  not  the  idea  that  she  might  be  observed  from  the 
cottage  made  her  at  last  hasten  to  it. 

The  door  lay  open  ; she  entered,  and  found  only  the  nurse  within, 
employed  at  knitting.  Her  astonishment  at  the  appearance  of 
Amanda  is  not  to  be  described. — She  started,  screamed,  suiweyed  her 
a minute,  as  if  doubting  the  evidence  of  her  eyes  ; then  running  to 
her,  flung  her  arms  about  her  neck,  and  clasped  her  to  her  bosom. 

“Good  gracious!”  cried  she,  “well  to  pe  sure,  who  ever  would 
thought  of  such  a thing:  well  to  pe  sure,  you  are  as  welcome  tlie 
flowers  in  May.  Here  we  have  peen  in  such  a peck  of  troubles  apout 
you,  many  and  many  a time  has  my  goot  man  said,  that  if  he  know 
where  you  were,  he  would  go  to  you.”  Amanda  returned  tlie 
embraces  of  her  faithful  nurse,  and  they  both  sat  down  together. 

“ Ah ! I fear,”  said  the  nurse  looking  tenderly  at  her  for  a few 
minutes,  ‘‘you  have  been  in  a sad  way  since  I last  sanv  you.  The 
pour  tear  captain,  alack  I little  did  I think  when  he  took  you  away 
fjroD’  4^9,  I should  never  see  him  more!”  Amanda’s  tears  could  no 


56G 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


lon^^er  be  suppressed ; they  gushed  in  torrents  from  her,  and  her  deep 
sobs  spoke  the  bitterness  of  her  feelings. 

“Aye,”  said  the  nurse,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  lier 
apron,  “gentle  or  simple,  sooner  or  later,  we  must  all  go  the  one 
way : so,  my  tear  child,  don’t  take  it  so  much  to  heart.  Well,  to  pe 
sure,  long  pefore  this  I thought  I should  have  seen  or  heard  of  your 
peing  greatly  married ; put  I pelieve  it  is  true  enough,  that  men  are 
like  the  wind,  always  changing.  Any  one  that  had  seen  Lord  Mor- 
timer, after  you  went  away,  would  never  have  thought  he  could 
prove  fickle ; he  was  in  such  grief  my  very  heart  and  soul  pitied  him  ; 
to  pe  sure,  if  I had  known  where  you  were,  I should  have  told  him  ; 
I comforted  myself,  however,  by  thinking  he  would  certainly  find  you 
out,  when,  Lort ! instead  of  looking  for  you,  here  he’s  going  to  pe 
married  to  a great  lady,  with  such  a long  hard  name,  a Scotch  heiress 
I think  they  call  her:  aye,  golt  is  every  thing  in  these  days.  Well, 
all  the  harm  I wish  him  is,  that  she  may  plague  his  life  out.” 

This  discourse  was  too  painful  to  Amanda ; her  tears  had  subsided, 
and  she  endeavoured  to  change  it,  by  asking  after  the  nurse’s  family. 
The  nurse,  in  a hasty  manner,  said  they  were  well,  and  thus  pro- 
ceeded : — “ Then  there  is  parson  Howell ; I am  sure  one  would  have 
thought  him  as  steady  as  Penmmnmawr,  but  no  such  thing : I am 
sure  he  has  changed,  for  he  does  not  come  to  the  cottage  half  as  often 
to  ask  about  you  as  he  used  to  do.” 

Amanda,  notwithstanding  her  dejection,  smiled  at  the  nurse’s  anger 
about  the  curate,  and  again  requested  to  hear  particulars  of  her 
family.  The  nurse  no  longer  hesitated  to  comply  with  her  request. 
She  informed  her  they  were  all  well,  and  then  at  a little  tance 
at  the  mill  in  the  valley.  She  also  added,  that  Ellen  was  married  to 
her  faithful  Chip,  had  a comfortable  cottage,  and  a fine  little  girl  she 
was  nursing,  and  to  whom  from  her  love  to  her  tear  young  laty,  she 
would  have  given  the  name  of  Amanda ; but  she  feared  people  would 
deem  her  conceited  to  give  her  so  fine  a one.  The  nurse  said  slie 
often  regretted  having  left  her  tear  young  laty,  and  then,  even  Cliip 
himself  could  not  console  her  for  having  done  so.  Tears  again  started 
to  Amanda’s  eyes  at  hearing  of  the  unabated  attachment  of  her  poor 
Eiien ; she  longed  to  see  and  congratulate  her  on  her  present  happi- 
ness. The  nurse,  in  her  turn,  inquired  into  all  that  had  befallen 
Amanda,  since  their  separation,  and  shed  tears  at  hearing  of  her  dear 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


567 


child’s  sufferings  since  that  period.  She  asked  about  Oscar,  and  was 
briefly  informed  he  was  well. — The  family  soon  returned  from  che 
dance,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  surprise  or  joy  was 
most  predominant  at  seeing  Amanda.  One  of  the  young  men  ran 
over  for  Ellen,  and  returned  in  a few  minutes  with  her,  followed  by 
her  husband,  carrying  his  little  child.  She  looked  with  wild  delight. 
She  clasped  Amanda  in  her  arms,  as  if  she  would  never  let  her 
depart  from  them,  and  wept  in  the  fulness'  of  her  heart. — “ISTow — 
now,”  cried  she,  “I  shall  be  quite  happy;  but  oh!  why,  my  tear 
young  laty,  did  you  not  come  amongst  us  pefore  ? you  know  all  in 
our  power  we  would  have  done  to  render  you  happy ; she  now  recol- 
lected herself,  and  modestly  retired  to  a little  distance.  She  took  her 
child  and  brought  it  to  Amanda,  who  delighted  her  extremely  by  the 
notice  she  took  of  it  and  Chip.  If  Amanda  had  had  less  cause  for 
grief,  the  attentions  of  these  affectionate  cottagers  would  have  soothed 
her  mind;  but  at  present  nothing  could  diminish  her  dejection.  Her 
luggage  was  by  this  time  arrived ; she  had  brought  presents  for  all 
the  family,  and  now  distributed  them.  She  tried  to  converse  about 
their  domestic  affairs,  but  found  herself  unequal  to  the  effort,  and 
begged  to  be  shown  to  her  chamber.  The  nurse  would  not  suffer  her 
to  retire  till  she  had  tasted  her  new  cheese  and  Welch  ale.  Yfhen 
alone  within  it  she  found  fresh  subjects  to  remind  her  of  Lord  Mor- 
timer, and  consequently  to  augment  her  grief ; here  lay  the  book-case 
he  had  sent  her.  She  opened  it  with  trembling  impatience;  but 
scarcely  a volume  did  she  examine  in  which  passages  were  not 
marked  by  his  hand  for  her  particular  perusal.  Oh ! what  mementos 
■were  these  volumes  of  the  happy  hours  she  had  passed  at  the  cottage  ; 
the  night  waned  away,  and  still  she  continued  v^eeping  over  them. 
She  could  with  difiiculty  bring  herself  to  close  the  book-case,  and 
when  she  retired  to  rest  her  slumbers  were  short  and  unrefreshing. 
The  next  morning,  as  she  sat  at  breakfast,  assiduously  attended  by  the 
nurse  and  her  daughters,  (for  Ellen  had  come  over  early  to  inquire 
after  her  health,)  Ho^vell  entered  to  pay  her  a visit;  the  previous 
intimations  she  had  received  of  the  alterations  in  his  sentiments, 
rendered  his  visit  more  pleasing  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been 
to  her ; his  pleasure  was*  great  at  seeing  her,  but  it  was  not  the  wild 
tnd  extravagant  delight  of  a lover,  but  the  soft  and  placid  joy  of  a 
friend.  After  his  departure,  which  was  not  soon,  she  accompanied 


5(]S  CniLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

Ellen  to  view  her  cottage,  and  was  infinitely  pleased  by  its  neatness 
and  romantic  situation ; it  lay  on  the  side  of  a hill,  which  commanded 
a beautiful  prospect  of  Tudor  Hall:  every  thing  she  beheld  reminded 
Amanda  of  Lord  Mortimer;  even  the  balmy  air  she  breathed,  on 
which  his  voice  had  so  often  floated. 

The  sad  indulgence  of  wandering  through  the  shades  of  Tudor 
Hall,  which  she  had  so  eagerly  desired,  and  fondly  anticipated,  she 
could  not  long  deny  herself.  The  second  evening  after  her  arrival  at 
the  cottage,  she  turned  her  solitary  steps  to  them;  their  deep 
embowering  glens,  their  solitude,  their  silence,  suited  the  pensive 
turn  of  feelings,  here,  undisturbed  and  unobserved,  she  could  indulge 
the  sorrows  of  her  heart;  and  oh!  how  did  recollection  augment 
those  sorrows,  by  retracing  thft  happy  hours  she  had  spent  within 
those  shades.  A cold,  a death-like  melancholy  pervaded  her  feelings, 
and  seemed  repelling  the  movements  of  life;  her  trembling  limbs 
were  unable  to  support  her,  and  she  threw  herself  on  the  ground 
For  some  minutes  she  could  scarcely  breathe ; tears  at  length  relieved 
her  painful  oppression;  she  raised  her  languid  head,  she  looked 
around,  and  wept  with  increasing  violence  at  beholding  what  might 
be  termed  moments  of  former  happiness.  She  repeated,  in  soft  and 
tremulous  accents,  the  name  of  Mortimer ; but  as  the  beloved  name 
vibrated  on  her  ear,  how  did  she  start  at  recollecting  that  she  was 
then  calling  upon  the  husband  of  Lady  Euphrasia.  She  felt  a 
momentary  glow  upon  her  cheeks;  she  arose,  and  sighed  deeply. 
“I  will  strive  to  do  right,”  she  cried,  “I  will  try  to  wean  my  soul 
from  remembrances  no  longer  proper  to  be  indulged.”  Yet  still  she 
lingered  in  the  wood  ; the  increasing  gloom  of  evening  rendered  it,  if 
possible,  more  pleasing  to  her  feelings,  Tvhilst  the  breeze  siglied 
mournfully  through  the  trees,  and  the  droning  bat  fluttered  in  the  air, 
upon  which  the  wild  music  of  a harp  from  one  of  the  neighbouring 
cottages  softly  floated. 

Amanda  drew  nearer  to  it:  it  looked  dark  and  melancholy;  she 
sighed;  she  involuntarily  exclaimed,  “oh!  how  soon  will  it  bo 
enlivened  by  bridal  pomp  and  festivity.” 

She  now  recollected  tlie  uneasiness  her  long  absence  might  create 
at  the  cottage,  and  as  soon  as  the  idea  occurred  hastened  to  it.  She 
met  Edwin  in  the  lane,  who  had  been  dispatched  by  his  wife  in  quest 
of  her.  The  gor  1 woman  expressed  her  fears  that  such  late  rambles 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABB3Y. 


569 


wTould  injure  the  health  of  Amanda:  “it  was  a sad  thing,’’  she  said, 
“ to  see  young  people  giving  way  to  dismal  fancies.” 

Amanda  did  not  confine  her  rambles  entirely  to  Tudor  Hall:  she 
visited  all  the  spots  where  she  and  Lord  Mortimer  used  to  ramble 
together.  She  went  to  the  humble  spot  where  her  mother  lay 
interred.  Her  feelings  were  now  infihitely  more  painful  than  when 
she  had  first  seen  it ; it  recalled  to  her  mind,  in  the  most  agonizing 
manner,  all  the  vicissitudes  she  had  experienced  since  that  period ; it 
recalled  to  view  the  calamitous  closure  of  her  father’s  life ; the 
sorrows,  the  distresses  of  that  life,  and  she  felt  overwhelmed  with 
grief ; scarcely  could  she  prevent  herself  from  falling  on  the  grave, 
and  giving  way  in  tears  and  lamentations,  to  that  grief.  De- 
prived of  the  dearest  connections  of  life ; blasted  in  hopes  and 
expectations,  “oh!  well  had  it  been  for  me,”  she  cried,  “had  this 
spot  at  once  received  the  mother  and  child : and  yet,”  she  exclaimed, 
after  a minute’s  reflection,  “ oh ! w'hat,  my  God,  am  I,  that  I should 
dare  to  murmur  or  repine  at  thy  decrees  ? Oh ! pardon  the  involun- 
tary expression  of  a woe-worn  heart,  of  a heart  that  feels  the  purest 
gratitude  for  thy  protection  through, past  dangers.  Oh!  how  pre- 
sumptuous,” she  continued,  “ to  repine  at  the  common  lot  of  humanity 
—at  the  lot  of  her,”  she  continued,  casting  her  tearful  eyes  upon  the 
grave,  where  the  last  flowers  of  autumn  were  now  withering,  “ who 
reposes  in  this  earthly  bed,  who,  in  life’s  meridian,  in  beauty’s  prime, 
sunk  the  sad  victim  of  sorrow  into  the  arms  of  death.  Oh!  my 
parents,  how  calamitous  were  your  destinies?  even  your  ashes  were 
not  permitted  to  moulder  together ; but  in  a happier  region  your 
kindred  spirits  are  now  united.  Blessed  spirits ! your  child  will 
strive  to  imitate  your  examples ; in  patient  resignation  to  the  will  of 
Heaven,  she  will  endeavour  to  support  life;  she  will  strive  to  live, 
though  not  from  an  idea  of  enjoying  happiness,  but  from  an  humble 
hope  of  being  able  to  dispense  it  to  others.” 

Such  were  the  words  of  Amanda  at  the  grave  of  her  mother,  from 
which  she  turned  like  a pale  and  drooping  lily,  surcharged  with 
tears. 

At  the  end  of  a week  she  heard  from  Oscar,  who  told  her  in  the 
course  of  a few  days  he  expected  to  embark  for  Scotland.  Amanda 
had  brought  materials  for  drawing  with  her,  and  she  felt  a passionate 
desire  of  taking  views  of  Tudoi  Hall;  views  she  believed  would 


570 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


yield  her  a inelanclioly  pleasure,  when  she  should  he  far  and  forever 
distant  from  the  spot  they  represented. 

This  desire,  however,  she  could  not  gratify,  without  the  assistance 
of  her  nurse,  for  she  meant  to  take  her  views  from  the  library,  and 
she  feared  if  she  went  there  without  apprizing  the  housekeeper,  she 
Bhould  be  liable  to  inten-uption.  She  therefore  requested  her  nurse 
to  ask  permission  for  her  to  go  there.  The  nurse  shook  her  head,  as 
if  she  suspected  Amanda  had  a motive  for  the  request,  she  did  not 
divulge.  She  was,  however,  too  anxious  to  gratify  her  child,  to  refuse 
complying  with  it,  and  accordingly  lost  no  time  in  asking  the  desired 
permission,  which  Mrs.  Abergwilly  readily  gave,  saying,  ‘‘Miss 
Fitzalan  was  welcome  to  go  to  the  library  whenever  she  pleased,  and 
should  not  be  interrupted.” 

Amanda  did  not  delay  availing  herself  of  this  permission;  but 
it  was  some  time  after  she  entered  the  library,  ere  she  could 
compose  herself  sufficiently  for  the  purpose  which  had  brought  her 
to  it.  In  vain  did  nature  appear  from  the  windows,  displaying  the 
most  beautiful  and  romantic  scenery  to  her  view,  as  if  to  tempt  her 
to  take  up  the  pencil.  Her  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears  as  she 
looked  upon  this  scenery,  and  reflected,  that  he  who  had  once  pointed 
out  its  various  beauties,  was  lost  to  her  forever.  By  degrees, 
however,  her  feelings  grew  composed,  and  every  morning  she 
repaired  to  the  library,  feeling,  whilst  engaged  within  it,  a temporary 
alleviation  of  sorrow. 

Three  weeks  passed  in  this  manner,  and  at  the  expiration  of  that 
period,  she  received  a letter  from  Oscar.  She  trembled  in  the  most 
violent  agitation  as  she  broke  the  seal,  for  she  saw  by  the  post-mark, 
he  was  in  Scotland;  but  how  great  was  her  surprise  and  joy  at  the 
contents  of  this  letter,  which  informed  her,  every  thing  relative  to 
the  important  aftair  so  lately  in  agitation,  w;j.s  settled  in  the  most 
amicable  manner;  that  the  avowal  of  his  claim  occasioned  not  the 
smallest  litigation ; that  he  was  then  in  full  possession  of  the  fortune 
bequeathed  him  by  the  earl,' and  had  already  received  the  congratula- 
tions of  the  neighbouring  families  on  his  accession,  or  rather  restora- 
tion to  it.  He  had  not  time,  he  said,  to  enumerate  the  many  particu- 
lars which  rendered  the  adjustment  of  affairs  so  easy,  and  hoped  the 
pleasing  intelligence  his  letter  communicated,  would  atone  for  its 
brevity;  he  added,  he  was  then  preparing  to  set  off  for  London, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


571 


Sir  diaries  Eingley,  of  -wlioso  friendsliip  he  spoke  in  tlie  highest 
terms,  to  settle  some  affairs  relative  to  his  new  possessions,  and 
particularly  about  the  revival  of  the  Dunreatli  title,  which,  not  from 
any  ostentatious  pride,  he  desired  to  obtain,  as  he  was  sure  she  would 
suppose,  but  from  gratitude  and  respect  to  the  wishes  of  his  grand- 
father, who,  in  his  will,  had  expressed  his  desire  that  the  honcnrs  of 
his  family  should  be  supported  by  his  heir.  When  every  thing  was 
finally  settled,  he  proceeded  to  say,  he  would  hasten  on  the  wings 
of  love  and  impatience  to  her,  for  in  her  sweet  society  alone,  he 
found  any  balm  for  the  sorrows  of  his  heart,  sorrows  which  could 
not  be  eradicated  from  it,  though  fortune  had  been  so  unexpectedly 
propitious ; and  he  hoped,  he  said,  he  should  find  her  then  gay  as  the 
birds,  blooming  as  the  flowers  of  spring,  and  ready  to  accompany 
him  to  the  venerable  mansion  of  their  ancestors. 

The  joyful  intelligence  this  letter  communicated  she  had  not  spirits 
at  present  to  mention  to  the  inhabitants  of  tlm  cottage : the  pleasure 
it  afforded  was  only  damped  by  reflecting  on  what  Lord  Mortimer 
must  feel  from  a discovery  which  could  not  fail  casting  a dark  shade 
of  obloquy  upon  his  new  connexions.  She  was  now  doubly  anxious 
to  finish  her  landscapes,  from  the  prospect  there  was  of  quittiug 
Wales  so  soon.  Every  visit  she  now  paid  the  library,- was  paid  with 
the  sad  idea  of  its  being  the  last.  As  she  was  preparing  for  going 
there  one  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast,  the  nurse,  who  had 
been  out  some  time  previous  to  her  rising,  entered  the  room  vfith  a 
look  of  breathless  impatience,  which  seemed  to  declare  she  had  some- 
thing wonderful  to  communicate.  “ Goot  lack-a-taisy,”  cried  she,  as 
soon  as  she  had  recovered  her  breath,  lifting  up  her  hpad  from  the 
back  of  the  chair  on  which  she  had  thrown  herself,  ‘‘  goot  lack-a-taisy, 
well  to  be  sure,  there  is  nothing  put  wonderful  things  happening  in 
this  world ! Here  old  dame  Abergwilly  sent  in  such  a hurry  for  me 
this  morning;  to  pe  sure  I was  surprised,  but  what  was  that  to  the 
surprise  I felt  when  I heard  what  she  had  sent  to  me  for.”  It  was 
now  Amanda’s  turn  to  feel  breathless  impatience.  “ Good  heavens  !” 
she  exclaimed,  “ what  did  she  tell  you?” 

Aye,  I knew,”  cried  the  nurse,  ‘‘  the  commotion  you  would  be  in 
when  I told  you  the  news  ; if  you  were  guessing  from  this  time  till 
this  time  to  morrow,  you  would  never  stumble  upon  what  it  is.” 

^ I dare  say  I should  not,”  cried  Amanda,  ‘‘so  do  be  brief.” 


572 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


“ Why,  you  must  know — ^put  Lort,  my  dear  chilt,  I am  afraid  you 
made  but  a bad  breakfast,  for  you  look  very  pale ; inteed  I made  no 
great  one  myself,  for  I was  in  such  a burry  Hurry  with  what  Mrs. 
Abergwilly  told  me,  that,  though  she  made  some  nice  green  tea,  and 
we  bad  a slim  cake,  I could  scarcely  touch  any  thing.” 

“ Well,”  said  Amanda,  tortured  with  anxiety  and  impatience, 
‘‘  what  did  she  tell  you  ?” 

“ Why,  my  tear  chilt,  down  came  a special  messenger  from  Lon- 
don last  night,  to  let  them  know  that  Lort  Cherbury  was  tead,  and 
that  Lort  Mortimer  had  sold  Tudor  Hall,  and  the  stewart  is  ordered 
to  pay  all  the  servants  off,  and  tischarge  them,  and  to  have  every 
thing  in  readiness  against  the  new  lantlort  comes  down  to  take 
possession. — Oh ! Lort,  there  is  such  weeping  and  wailing  at  the  Hal], 
the  poor  creatures,  who  had  grown  old  in  the  service,  hoped  to  have 
finished  their  tays  in  it;  it  is  not  that  they  are  in  fear  of  want,  the 
young  lort  has  taken  care  of  that,  for  he  has  settled  something  yearly 
upon  them  all,  but  that  they  are  sorry  to  quit  the  family.  Poor  Mrs. 
Abergwilly,  nothing  can  comfort  the  old  soul ; she  has  neither  chick 
nor  chilt,  and  she  ^old  me  she  loved  the  very  chairs  and  tables,  to 
which,  to  pe  sure,  her  hand  has  given  many  a polishing  rub.  ;iho 
says  she  thinks  she  wiF  come  and  lodge  with  me ; but  if  she  does,  she 
says  I must  not  put  hei  in  a room  from  whence  she  can  have  a view 
of  Tudor  Hall,  for  she  says  she  will  never  be  able  to  look  at  it  when 
once  it  gets  a new  master ; so  this,  my  tear  chilt,  is  the  sum  totum  of 
wdiat  I have  heard.” 

Amanda  was  equally  astonished  and  affected  by  what  she  heard. 
She  wished  to  know  if  the  nurse  had  received  any  intelligence  of 
Lord  Mortimer’s  marriage,  but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  ask  the 
question  : besides,  upon  reflection,  she  was  convinced  she  should  iiavo 
heard  it  had  it  been  the  case.  With  Lord  Olierbury  died  all  hopes  i x tho 
restoration  of  her  fame  in  the  opinion  of  his  son  : “ Yet  Avhy,”  she 
asked  herself,  “ should  I regret  this  ? Since  thus  separated,  it  is  bet- 
ter, perhaps,  he  has  ceased  to  esteem  me,  as  undoubtedly  it  must 
lessen  his  feelings  on  my  account.”  Why  he  should  part  wdth  Tudoi 
Kail  she  could  not  conceive,  except  it  was  to  humour  some  caprice  ot 
Lady  Enphrasia’s,  who  it  was  probable  (she  imagined)  knew  that  tlie 
attachment  between  her  and  Lord  Mortimer  had  there  commenced 
“ Ah!”  cried  Amanda,  “ she  never  could  have  relished  its  beauties — 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


573 


beauties  wliicli,  if  Lord  Mortimer  thinks  as  I do,  would,  if  reviewed, 
only  have  augmented  his  sorrows — sorrows  which  propriety  now 
demands  liis  repelling.”  She  hastened  to  the  Hall,  but  was  some  time 
there  ere  she  could  commence  her  enjoyment,  so  much  had  she  been 
agitated.  The  landscape  she  was  finishing  was  taken  from  the  little 
valley  which  lay  beneath  the  windows  of  the  music  room,  the 
romantic  ruins  of  an  old  castle  overhung  an  eminence  at  its  extremity  ; 
and  cf  the  whole  scene  she  had  taken  a most  accurate  copy ; it 
wanted  but  one  charm  to  please  her,  and  that  charm  was  the  figure 
of  Lord  Mortimer,  with  whom  she  had  often  wandered  round  the 
ruins.  Her  hand  was  ready  in  obeying  the  impulse  of  her  heart,  and 
she  soon  beheld  sketched,  in  the  most  striking  manner,  the  elegant 
features  of  him  so  ardently  beloved.  She  gazed  with  rapture  upon, 
them,  but  it  was  a short  lived  rapture. — She  started,  as  if  conscious 
she  had  committed  a crime,  when  she  reflected  on  the  situation  in 
which  he  now  stood  wuth  another  woman ; her  trembling  hand  has- 
tened to  atone  for  its  error  by  expunging  the  dangerous  likeness,  and 
the  warm  involuntary  tear  she  shed  at  the  moment  aided  her  design. 

Oh  I how  unnecessary,”  she  cried,  as  she  made  this  sacrifice  to  deli- 
£acy,  “ to  sketch  features  which  are  indelibly  engraven  on  my  heart.” 
As  she  spoke,  a deep  and  long-drawn  sigh  reached  her  ear ; alarmed, 
confounded,  at  the  idea  of  being  overheard,  and  of  course  the  feel- 
ings of  her  heart  discovered,  she  started  with  precipitation  from  her 
seat,  and  looked  around  her  with  a kind  of  wild  confusion : but  gra- 
cious heavens!  who  can  describe  the  emotions  of  her  soul,  when  the 
original  of  that  picture,  so  fondly  sketched,  so  hastily  obliterated,  met 
her  eye. — ^Amazed,  unable  to  speak,  to  move,  almost  to  breath,  she 
stood  motionless  and  aghast,  the  pale  statue  of  surprise,  as  if  she 
neither  durst  or  could  believe  the  evidence  of  her  eyes.  Well,  indeed, 
might  she  have  doubted  them,  for  in  the  pale  countenance  of  Lord 
Mortimer  scarce  a vestige  of  his  former  self  (except  in  the  benignancy 
of  his  looks)  remained.  His  faded  complexion,  the  disorder  of  his 
hair,  his  mourning  habit,  all  heightened  the  sad  expression  of  his 
features,  an  expression  which  declared  that  he  and  happiness  were 
never  so  disunited  as  at  the  present  moment ; the  first  violence  of 
Amanda’s  feelings  in  a little  time  abating,  she  somewhat  recovered  the 
nse  of  her  faculties,  and  hastily  snatching  up  her  drawings,  moved 
with  weak  and  trembling  steps  to  the  door.  She  had  nearly  j-eacbe^ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

it,  wlien  the  soft  and  tremulous  voice  of  Lord  Mortimer  aiTested 
her  course.  “You  go  then,  Miss  Fitzalan,”  cried  he,  “without  ono 
adieu ; you  go,  and  we  never  more  shall  meet.”  The  agonizing  man- 
ner in  which  these  words  were  pronounced,  struck  a death-like  chill 
upon  the  heart  of  Amanda.  She  stopped  and  turned  around  involun- 
tarily, as  if  to  receive  that  last  and  sad  adieu  which  she  was  half 
reproached  for  avoiding.  Lord  Mortimer  approached  her;  ho 
attempted  to  speak,  but  his  voice  was  inarticulate ; a gust  of  sorrow 
burst  from  his  eyes,  and  he  hastily  covered  his  face  with  a handker- 
chief, and  walked  to  a window. 

Amanda,  unutterably  affected,  was  unable  to  stand ; she  sunk  upon 
a chair,  and  watched  with  a bursting  heart  the  emotions  of  Lord 
Mortimer.  Oh ! with  what  difficulty  at  this  moment  did  she  confine 
herself  within  the  cold  the  rigid  rules  of  propriety — with  what  diffi- 
culty did  she  prevent  herself  from  flying  to  Lord  Mortimer — from 
mingling  tears  with  his,  and  lamenting  the  cruel  destiny  which  had 
disunited  them  forever.  Lord  Mortimer  in  a few  minutes  was  suffi- 
ciently recovered  again  to  approach  her.  “ I have  long  wished  for 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  you,”  said  he,  “but  had  not  courage  to 
desire  an  interview.  How  little  did  I imagine  this  morning,  when, 
like  a sad  exile,  I came  to  take  a last  farewell  of  a favourite  residence, 
that  I should  behold  you ! Fate,  in  granting  this  interview,  has  for 
once  befriended  me.  To  express  my  horror,  my  remorse,  my  anguish, 
not  only  for  the  error,  a combination  of  events  influenced  me  into 
concerning  you — but  for  the  conduct  that  error  led  me  to  adopt,  will 
I think,  a little  lighten  my  heart : to  receive  your  pardon  will  be 
a sweet,  a sad  consolation ; yet,”  continued  he,  after  a moment’s  pause, 
“ why  do  I say  it  will  be  a consolation  ? Alas ! the  sweetness  that 
may  lead  you  to  accord  it,  will  only  heighten  my  wretchedness  at  our 
eternal  separation.”  Here  he  paused.  Amanda  was  unable  to  speak. 
His  words  seemed  to  imply  he  was  acquainted  with  the  injuries  she 
had  Bustained  through  his  father’s  means,  and  she  waited  in  trembling 
expectation  for  an  explanation  of  them  “ The  purity  of  your  charac- 
ter,” exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  “ was  at  length  fully  revealed  to  me. 
Good  Heavens  ! under  what  afflicting  circumstances  By  that  being, 
to  whom  you  so  generously  made  a sacrifice  of  what  then — you  might 
have  considered  your  happiness.” 

“Did  Lord  Oherbiiry,  then,”  said  Amanda,  with  inexpressible 
eagerness,  “did  he  then  (at  last)  justify  me?” 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


5V5 


‘‘Yes,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  “lie  proved  yoii  were  indeed  the  most 
excellent,  the  most  injured  of  human  beings,  that  you  were  all  which 
my  fond  heart  once  believed  you  to  be;  but  oh!  what  were  the  dread- 
ful emotions  of  that  heart  to  know  his  justification  came  too  late  to 
restore  its  peace.  Once  there  was  a happy  period,  when,  after  a sim- 
ilar error  being  removed,  I had  hoped,  by  a life  ever  devoted  to  you, 
to  have  made  some  reparation,  some  atonement,  for  my  involuntary 
injustice;  but,  alas!  no  reparation,  no  atonement,  can  now  be  made.” 

Amanda  wept ; she  raised  her  streaming  eyes  to  heaven,  and  again 
cast  them  to  the  earth. 

“ You  weep,”  cried  Lord  Mortimer,  in  a tone  expressive  of  sur- 
prise, after  surveying  her  some  minutes  in  silence ; “ my  love,  my 
Amanda,”  continued  he,  suddenly  seizing  her  hand,  while  he  survey- 
ed her  with  a most  rapturous  fondness,  a crimson  glow  mantling  his 
cheek,  and  a beam  of  wonted  brilliancy  darting  from  his  eye ; “ Wliat 
am  I to  imagine  from  those  tears? — Are  you  then,  indeed,  unal- 
tered ?” 

Amanda  started ; she  feared  the  emotions  she  betrayed  had  con 
vinced  Lord  Mortimer  of  the  continuance,  the  unabated  strength  of 
her  affection ; she  felt  shocked  at  her  imprudence,  which  had  alone, 
she  was  convinced,  tempted  Lord  Mortimer  to  address  her  in  such  a 
manner.  “I  know  not,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  “in  what  sense  you  ask 
whether  I am  unchanged;  but  of  this  be  assured,  a total  alteration 
must  have  taken  place  in  my  sentiments,  if  I could  remain  a moment 
longer  with  a person,  who  seems  at  once  forgetful  of  what  is  due  to 
his  own  situation  and  mine.” 

“ Go  then,  madam,”  exclaimed  Lord  Mortimer,  in  an  accent  of  dis- 
pleasure, “and  pardon  my  having  thus  detained  you;  pardon  my 
involuntary  offence,  excuse  my  having  disturbed  your  retirement,  and 
obtruded  my  sorrows  on  you.” 

Amanda  now  reached  the  door;  her  heart  recoiled  at  the  idea 
of  parting  in  such  a manner  from  Lord  Mortimer,  but  prudence  bid 
her  hasten  as  fast  as  possible  from  him ; yet  slow  and  lingeringly  she 
pursued  her  way ; ere  she  had  gone  many  yards  she  was  overtaken  by 
Lord  Mortimer;  his  pride  was  inferior  to  his  tenderness.  Which  drove 
him  to  despair  at  the  idea  of  his  parting  in  displeasure  from  her, 
“Oh!  my  Amanda,”  cried  he,  seizing  her  hand,  and  almost  breathless 
with  emotion,  “add  hot,  by  your  anger,  to  the  bitterness  of  this  sad 
hour;  since  we  must  part,  oh!  let  us  part  in  amity,  as  friends  that 


5YC  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

regard  each  other.  You  have  not  yet  (if  indeed  it  is  possible  for  you  to 
do  so)  pronounced  your  forgiveness  of  the  persecutions  you  underwent 
on  my  account ; you  have  not  yet  granted  your  pardon  for  the  harsh- 
ness, the  cruelty  with  which  a dreadful  error  tempted  me  to  treat  you.” 

“ Oh!  my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  again  yielding  to  the  softness  of  her 
soul,  while  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks,  “why  torture  me  by 
speaking  in  this  manner  ? How  can  I pronounce  forgiveness  when  I 
never  was  offended  ? when  wretched  and  deserted  I appeared  to  stand 
upon  the  great  theatre  of  life  without  one  hand  to  offer  me  assistance, 
your  ready  friendship  came  to  my  relief,  and  poured  the  balm  of  comfort 
over  the  sorrows  of  my  heart ; when  deprived  by  deceit  and  cruelty 
of  your  good  opinion,  even  then  your  attention  and  solicitude  pursued 
my  wandering  footsteps,  and  strove  to  mark  a path  of  comfort  for  me 
to  take.  These,  these  are  obligations  that  never  can  be  forgotten, 

that  demand,  that  possess  my  eternal  gratitude,  my” A warmer 

expression  rose  to  her  lips,  but  was  again  buried  in  her  heart.  She 
sighed,  and  after  a pause  of  a minute,  thus  went  on  ; “ for  your  hap- 
piness, my  warmest,  purest  prayers,  are  daily  offered  up  : oh  I may 
U yet  be  equal  to  your  virtues,  greater  I cannot  wish  it.” 

Lord  Mortimer  groaned  in  the  excruciating  agony  of  his  soul. 
“ Oh ! Amanda,”  he  said,  “ where — where  can  I receive  consolation 
for  your  loss?  Never — ^never  in  this  world!”  He  took  her  hands 
within  his,  he  raised  them  to  heaven,  as  if  supplicating  its  choicest 
blessings  on  her  head.  “ For  my  happiness  you  pray,”  he  exclaimed 
— “ ah  ! my  love,  how  unavailing  is  the  prayer !” 

Amanda  now  saw  more  than  ever  the  necessity  of  hastening  away. 
Bhe  gently  withdrew  her  hands,  and  hurried  on  as  fast  as  her  trem- 
bling limbs  could  carry  her.  Still  Lord  Mortimer  attended  her ; “ Yet 
Amanda,”  cried  he,  “ a little  moment.  Tell  me,”  he  continued,  again 
seizing  her  hand,  “ do  not  these  shades  remind  you  of  departed  hours  ? 
Oh ! what  blissful  ones  have  we  not  passed  beneath  their  foliage, 
that  foliage  which  I shall  never  more  behold  expanding  to  the  breath 
of  spring.” 

Amanda  trembled : this  involuntary,  but  sad  declaration  of  the  loss 
of  a seat  so  valued  by  liim,  overpov/ered  her : her  respiration  grew 
faint,  she  could  not  support  herself,  and  made  a motion  to  sit  down 
upon  the  grass,  but  Lord  Mortimer  eagerly  caught  her  to  his  bosom. 
She  had  not  strength  to  resist  the  effort,  and  her  bead  reclined  upon 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


611 


his  shoulder ; but  who  can  speak  her  feelings,  as  she  felt  the  beating 
heart  of  ^Mortimer,  which  from  its  violent  palpitations,  seemed  as  if  it 
would  burst  his  bosom  to  find  a passage  to  her  feet.  In  a few  min- 
utes she  was  a little  recovered,  and  sensible  of  the  impropriety  of  her 
situation,  was  now  resolutely  determined  to  quit  Lord  Mortimer. 
“We  must  part,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  disengaging  herself  from  his  arms, 
notwithstanding  a gentle  effort  he  made  to  detain  her;  “we  must 
part,  my  lord,”  she  repeated,  “ and  part  forever.” 

“ TeU  me,  then,”  he  exclaimed,  still  impeding  her  course,  “ tell  mo 
whether  I may  still  hope  to  live  in  your  remembrance,  whether  I may 
hope  not  to  be  obliterated  from  your  memory  by  the  happiness  which 
will  shortly  surround  you : promise  1 shall  at  times  be  thought  of 
with  your  wonted,  though,  alas ! unavailing  wishes  for  my  happiness, 
and  the  promise  will  perhaps  afford  me  consolation  in  the  solitary 
exile  I have  doomed  myself  to.” 

“ Ah ! my  lord,”  said  Amanda,  unable  to  repress  her  feelings, 
“ why  do  I hear  you  speak  in  this  manner  ? In  mentioning  exile,  do 
yon  not  declare  your  intention  of  leaving  unfilled  the  claims  which 
situation,  family,  and  society  have  upon  you  ? Oh ! my  lord,  you 
shock,  shall  I say 'more,  you  disappoint  me!  Yes,  I repeat  it,  disap- 
point the  idea  I have  formed  of  the  virtue  and  fortitude  of  him  who, 
as  a friend,  I shall  ever  regard : to  yield  thus  to  sorrow,  to  neglect  the 
incumbent  duties  of  life,  to  abandon  a woman  to  whom  so  lately  you 
plighted  your  solemn  vows  of  love  and  protection ; Oh  ! my  lord,  what 
will  her  friends,  what  will  Lady  Euphrasia  herself  say  to  such  cruel, 
such  unjustifiable  conduct  ?” 

“ Lady  Euphrasia  1”  repeated  Lord  Mortimer,  recoiling  a few  paces. 
“ Lady  Euphrasia  1”  he  again  exclaimed,  in  tremulous  accents,  regard- 
ing Amanda  v/ith  an  expression  of  mingled  horror  and  wildness; 
“ Gracious  heaven ! is  it,  can  it  be  possible  you  are  ignorant  of  the 
circumstances  which  lately  happened  ? Yes,  your  words,  your  looks 
declare  you  are  so.” 

It  was  now  Amanda’s  turn  to  repeat  his  words.  She  demanded, 
with  a wildness  of  countenance  equal  to  that  he  had  just  displayed, 
“ what  were  the  circumstances  he  alluded  to  ?” 

“ First  teU  me,”  cried  he,  “ was  the  alteration  in  your  manner  produced 
V by  your  supposing  me  the  husband  of  Euphrasia  ?” 

“Supposing  you  her  husband?”  repeated  Amanda,  unable  to  answer 

25 


578 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


his  question  in  a moment  of  such  torturing  suspense;  “and  are  you 
not  so?” 

“No,”  replied  Lord  Mortimer,  “I  never  had  the  misfortune  to  offer 
vows  which  my  heart  could  not  ratify.  Lady  Euphrasia  made  another 
choice.  She  was  your  enemy,  hut  I know  your  gentle  spirit  will  mourn 
her  sad  and  sudden  fate.”  He  ceased,  for  Amanda  had  no  longer  power 
to  listen;  she  sunk,  beneath  surprise  and  joy,  into  the  expanded  arms 
of  her  beloved  Mortimer.  It  is  ye  alone  who,  like  her,  have  stood  upon 
the  very  brink  of  despair,  who,  like  her,  have  been  restored,  unexpectedly 
restored  to  hope,  to  happiness,  that  can  form  any  judgment  of  hei 
feelings  at  the  present  moment — at  the  moment  when  recovering 
from  her  insensibility,  the  soft  accent  of  Lord  Mortimer  saluted  her 
ear  and  made  her  heart,  without  one  censure  from  propriety,  respond 
to  rapture,  as  he  held  her  to  his  bosom;  as  he  gazed  on  her  with 
tears  of  impassioned  tenderness,  he  repeated  his  question,  whether 
the  alteration  in  her  manner  was  produced  alone  by  the  supposition 
of  his  marriage : but  he  repeated  it  with  a sweet,  a happy  conscious- 
ness of  having  it  answered  according  to  his  wishes. 

“These  tears,  these  emotions,  oh!  Mortimer,  wdiat  do  they  declare?” 
exclaimed  Amanda.  “ Ah ! do  they  not  say  my  heart  never  knew  a 
diminution  of  tenderness,  that  it  could  never  have  forgotten  you. 
Yes,”  she  continued,  raising  her  eyes,  streaming  with  tears  of  rapture, 
to  Heaven,  “I  am  now  recompensed  for  all  my  sufferings;  yes,  in 
this  blissful  moment  I meet  a full  reward  for  them.”  Lord  Morti- 
mer now  led  her  back  to  the  library,  to  give  an  explanation  of  the 
events  which  had  produced  so  great  a reverse  of  situation:  but  it  was 
long  ere  he  could  sufficiently  compose  himself  to  commence  his 
ftiarrative,  alternately  he  fell  at  the  feet  of  Amanda,  alternately  he 
iolded  her  to  his  bosom,  and  asked  his  heart  if  its  present  happiness 
was  real.  A thousand  times  he  questioned  her  whether  she  was 
indeed  unaltered,  as  often  implored  her  forgiveness  for  one  moment 
doubting  her  constancy.  Amanda  exerted  her  spirits  to  calm  her 
own  agitation,  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  sooth  him  into  trauquiUity 
At  length  she  succeeded,  and  he  terminated  her  anxious  impatience  by 
gi'dng  her  the  promised  relation. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


570 


CIIAPTEK  LYI, 

By  suffering  well,  our  torture  we  subdue. 

Fly  when  she  frowns,  and  when  she  calls  pursue. 

Overwhelmed  with  grief  and  disappointment  at  the  supposed 
perfidy  of  Amanda,  Lord  Mortimer  had  returned  to  England, 
acquainting  Lord  Cherhury  and  Lady  Martha  of  the  unhappy  cause 
of  his  returning  alone;  entreating  them,  in  pity  to  his  wmunded 
feelings,  never  to  mention  the  distressing  subject  before  him.  Ilis 
dejection  was  unconquerable;  all  his  schemes  of  felicity  Avere  over- 
thrown, and  the  destruction  of  hopes  was  tlie  destruction  of  his 
peace.  It  was  not  in  these  first  transports  of  bitter  sorrow  that 
Lord  Cherbury  ventured  to  speak  his  wishes  to  his  son ; he  waited 
till  by  slow  degrees  he  saw  a greater  degree  of  composure  in  his 
manner,  though  it  was  a composure  attended  with  no  abatement  of 
melancholy.  At  first  he  only  hinted  those  washes ! hints,  hoAvever, 
which  Lord  Mortimer  appeared  designedly  insensible  of.  At  last  the 
earl  spoke  plainer ; he  mentioned  his  deep  regret  at  beholding  a son, 
whom  he  had  ever  considered  the  pride  of  his  house,  and  the  solace 
of  his  days,  Avasting  his  youth  in  wretchedness  for  an  ungrateful 
woman,  Avho  had  long  triumphed  in  the  infatuation  Avhich  bound 
him  to  her : it  filled  his  soul  with  anguish,  he  said,  to  behold  him 
lost  to.  himself,  his  family,  and  the  Avoiid,  thus  disappointing  all  the 
hopes  and  expectations  which  the  fair  promise  of  his  early  youth  had 
given  rise  to  in  the  bosom  of  his  friends,  concerning  the  meridian  of 
his  days. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  unutterably  affected  by  Avhat  his  father  said. 
The  earl  beheld  his  emotion,  and  blessed  it  as  a happy  omen.  Ilis 
pride  as  AVell  as  sensibility,  he  continued,  were  deeply  wmunded  at  the 
idea  of  having  Lord  Mortimer  still  considered  the  slave  of  a passion 
Avhich  had  met  so  base  a return.  Oh ! let  not  the  Avorld,  added  he, 
with  increasing  energy,  triumph  in  your  weakness : try  to  shake  it 
off,  ere  the  finger  of  scorn  and  ridicule  is  pointed  at  you^  as  the  dupa 
of  a deceitful  woman’s  art.  " 

Lord  Mortimer  was  inexpressibly  shocked;  his  pride  had  frequently 
represented  as  weakness  the  regret  he  felt  for  Amanda:  and  the  earl 


580 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


now  stimulating  that  pride,  he  felt  at  the  moment  as  if  he  could  make 
any  sacrifice  >.'hich  would  prove  his  having  triumphed  over  his 
unfortunate  attachment;  but  when  his  father  called  upon  him  to 
make  such  a sacrifice  by  uniting  himself  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  he 
shrunk  back,  and  acknowledged  he  could  not  give  so  fatal  a proof  of 
fortitude  lie  declared  his  total  repugnance  at  present  to  any  alli- 
ance ; time,  and  the  efforts  of  reason,  he  trusted,  would  subdue  his 
ill-placed  attachment,  and  enable  him  to  comply  with  the  wfishes  of 
his  friends. 

Lord  Cherbury  would  not,  could  not  drop  the  subject  next  his 
heart;  a subject  so  important,  so  infinitely  interesting  to  him;  he 
exerted  all  his  eloquence,  he  entreated,  he  implored  his  son,  not  forever 
to  disappoint  his  wishes:  he  mentioned  the  compliance  he  had  so 
recently  shown  to  his,  though  against  his  better  judgment,  in  the 
useless  consent  he  had  given  to  his  marriage  witli  Miss  Eitzalan. 

Lord  Mortimer,  persecuted  by  his  arguments,  at  length  declared, 
that  were  the  objec  t he  pointed  out  for  his  alliance,  any  other  than 
Lady  Euphrasia  Sutherland,  he  would  not  perhaps,  be  so  reluctant  to 
comply  with  his  wishes;  but  she  was  a woman  he  could  never  esteem, 
and  must,  consequently,  forever  refuse;  she  had  given  such  specimens 
of  cruelty  and  deceit,  in  the  schemes  she  had  entered  into  with  the 
marchioness,  against  (he  blushed,  he  faltered,  as  he  pronounced  her 
name)  Miss  Eitzalan,  that  his  heart  felt  unutterable  dislike  to 
her. 

The  earl  was  prepared  for  this ; he  had  the  barbarity  to  declare  in 
the  most  unhesitating  manner,  he  was  sorry  still  to  find  him  blinded 
by  the  arts  of  that  wretched  girl ; he  bid  him  reflect  on  her  conduct, 
and  then  consider  whether  any  credence  was  to  be  given  on  her 
declaration  of  Belgrave’s  being  admitted  to  the  house  without  her 
knowledge. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  startled ; her  conduct,  indeed,  as  his  filth er  said, 
might  well  make  him  doubt  her  veracity.  But  still  the  evidence  of  tho 
servants;  they  acknowledged  having  been  instruments  in  forwarding 
the  scheme  whicJi  she  said  waa^laid  against  her.  He  mentioned  this 
circumstance : the  earl  was  also  prepared  for  it ; the  servants,  he  declared, 
had  been  examined  in  his  presence,  when,  with  shame  and  contrition 
they  confessed,  that  seeing  the  strong  anxiety  of  Lord  Mortimer  for  the 
restoration  of  Miss  Fitzalan’s  fame,  and  tempted  by  the  largo  bribes  ho 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


581 


offered,  if  they  could  or  would  say  anything  in  her  justification,  they 
had,  at  last,  made  the  allegation,  so  pleasing  to  him. 

Lord  Mortimer  sighed  deeply:  on  every  side,  cried  he,  I find  I 
have  been  the  dupe  of  art ; but  it  was  only  the  deceit  of  one  could 
agonize  my  soul.  Still,  however,  he  was  inexorable  to  all  his  father 
could  say,  relative  to  Lady  Euphrasia. 

Lady  Martha  was  at  last  brought  in  as  an  auxiliary  : she  was  now 
as  strenuous  for  the  connexion  as  ever  Lord  Cherbury  had  been;  a 
longer  indulgence  of  Lord  Mortimer’s  grief,  she  feared,  would  com- 
pletely undermine  his  health,  and  either  render  him  a burden  to 
himself,  or  precipitate  him  to  an  early  grave.  Whilst  he  continued 
single,  she  knew  he  would  not  consider  any  vigorous  exertions  for 
overcoming  that  grief  necessary ; but  if  once  united,  she  was  con- 
vinced from  the  rectitude  and  sensibility  of  his  disposition,  he  would 
struggle  against  his  feelings,  in  order  to  fulfill  the  incumbent  -duties 
he  had  imposed  upon  himself.  Thus  did  she  deem  a union  requisite 
to  rouse  him  to  exertion,  to  restore  his  peace,  and  in  all  probability 
to  save  his  life.  She  joined  in  her  brother’s  arguments  and  entrea- 
ties, with  tears  she  joined  in  them,  and  besought  Mortimer  to  accede 
to  their  wishes ; she  called  him  the  last  hope  of  their  house ; he  had 
long,  she  said,  been  the  pride,  the  delight  of  their  days : their  com- 
fort, their  existence,  were  interwoven  in  his,  if  he  sunk,  they  sunk 
with  him. 

The  yielding  soul  of  Mortimer  could  not  resist  such  tenderness,  and 
he  gave  a promise  of  acting  as  they  wislied.  He  imagined  he  could 
not  be  more  wretched ; but  scarcely  had  this  promise  passed  his  lips, 
ere  he  felt  an  augmentation  of  misery.  To  enter  into  new  engage- 
ments, to  resign  the  sweet  though  melancholy  privilege  of  divulging 
his  feelings,  to  fetter  at  once  both  soul  and  body,  were  ideas  that 
filled  him  with  unutterable  anguish.  A thousand  times  was  he  on 
the  point  of  retracting  his  regretted  and  reluctant  promise,  had  not 
honour  interposed,  and  showed  the  inability  of  doing  so,  without  an 
infringement  on  its  principles.  Thus  entangled,  Mortimer  endea- 
voured to  collect  his  scattered  thoughts,  and  in  order  to  try  and  gain 
some  composure,  he  altered  his  former  plan  of  acting,  and  mingled  as 
much  as  possible  in  society ; he  strove  to  fly  from  himself,  that  by  so 
doing,  he  might  fly  from  the  corrosive  remembrances  which  embit- 
tered his  life.  But  who  shall  paint  his  agonies  at  the  unexpected 


582 


CniLDREJS  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


sight  of  Amanda  at  the  Macqiieens^  I The  exertions  he  had  Jbr  soma 
time  before  compelled  himself  to  make,  had  a little  abated  the  pain 
of  his  feelings,  hut  that  pain  returned  with  redoubled  violence  at  her 
presence,  and  every  idea  of  present  composure  or  future  tranquillity 
vanished.  He  felt,  with  regret,  with  anguish,  that  she  was  as  dear 
as  ever  to  his  soul,  and  his  destined  union  became  more  hateful  than 
ever  to  him.  He  tried,  by  recollecting  her  conduct^  to  awaken  his 
resentment ; but  alas ! softness,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  the  con- 
trary, was  the  predominant  feeling  of  his  soul.  Her  pallid  cheek,  her 
deep  dejection  seemed  to  say  she  was  the  child  of  sorrow  and  repen- 
tance. To  sooth  that  sorrow,  to  strengthen  that  repentance,  oh! 
how  delightful  unto  him ; but  either  he  durst  not  do,  situated  as  he 
then  was. 

With  the  utmost  difficulty  Lady  Martha  Dormer  prevailed  on  him 
to  be  present  when  she  demanded  the  picture  of  Amanda.  That 
scene  has  already  been  described,  also  his  parting  one  with  her ; but 
to  describe  the  anguish  he  endured  after  this  period,  is  impossible. 
He  beheld  Lady  Euphrasia  with  a degree  of  horror } his  faltering 
voice  refused  even  to  pay  her  the  accustomed  compliments  of  meet- 
ing ; he  loathed  the  society  he  met  at  the  castle,  and  regardless  of 
what  might  be  thought  of  him ; regardless  of  health  or  the  bleakness 
of  the  season,  wandered  for  hours  together  in  the  most  unfrequented 
parts  of  the  domain,  the  veriest  son  of  wretchedness  and  despair. 

The  day,  the  dreaded  day  at  length  arrived  which  was  to  complete 
liis  misery.  The  company  were  all  assembled  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
castle,  from  whence  they  were  to  proceed  to  the  chapel,  and  every 
moment  expected  the  appearance  of  the  bride.  The  marquis  surprised 
at  her  long  delay,  sent  a messenger  to  request  her  immediate  pres- 
ence, who  returned  in  a few  minutes  with  a letter  which  he  presented 
to  the  marquis,  who  broke  the  seal  in  visible  trepidation,  and  found 
it  from  Lady  Euphrasia. 

“ She  had  taken  a step,”  she  said,  “ which  she  must  depend  on  the 
kind  indulgence  of  her  parents  to  excuse ; a step  which  nothing  but 
a firm  conviction  that  happiness  could  not  be  experienced  in  a union 
with  Lord  Mortimer,  should  have  tempted  her  to.  His  uniform 
indifference  had,  at  last,  convinced  her,  that  motives  of  the  most  in- 
terested nature  influenced  his  addresses  to  her,  and  if  her  parents 
inquired  into  his,  or  at  least  Lord  Cherbury’s  conduct,  they  would 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


583 


find  her  assertion  true,  and  would  consequently,  she  trusted,  excuse 
her  for  not  submitting  to  be  sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of  interest.  In 
selecting  Mr.  Freelove  for  her  choice,  she  had  selected  a man,  whose 
addresses  W3re  not  prompted  by  selfish  views,  but  by  a sincere  afifec- 
tion,  which  he  would  have  openly  avowed,  had  he  not  been  assured 
in  the  pre^ient  situation  of  affairs,  it  would  have  met  with  opposition. 
To  avoid,  therefore,  a positive  act  of  disobedience,  she  had  consented 
to  a.  private  union.  To  Lord  Mortimer  and  Lord  Oherbury,”  she 
said,  “ sl'e  deemed  no  apology  necessary  for  her  conduct,  as  their 
hearts,  at  least  Lord  Cherbury’s,  would  at  once  exculpate  her,  from 
his  own  consciousness  of  not  having  acted  either  generously  or  honour- 
ably to  her.” 

The  violent  tr?:asports  of  passion  the  marquis  experienced  are  not 
to  be  described.  The  marchioness  hastily  perused  the  letter,  and  her 
feelings  were  not  inferior  in  violence  to  his.  Its  contents  were  not 
known,  and  amazement  sat  on  every  countenance.  But  oh ! what 
joy  did  they  inspire  in  the  soul  of  Lord  Mortimer : not  a respite,  or 
rather  a full  pardon  to  the  condemned  wretch,  at  the  very  moment 
when  preparing  for  death,  could  have  yielded  more  exquisite  delight; 
but  to  Lord  Cherbury,  what  a disappointment ! it  was  indeed  a death 
stroke  to  his  hopes  : the  hints  in. Lady  Euphrasia’s  letter  concerning 
him,  plainly  declared  her  knowledge  of  his  conduct : he  foresaw  an 
immediate  demand  from  Freelove,  foresaw  the  disgrace  he  should 
experience,  when  his  inability  to  discharge  that  demand  was  known. 
Ilis  soul  was  shaken  in  its  utmost  recess,  and  the  excruciating 
angTiish  of  his  feelings  was  indeed  as  severe  a punishment  as  he  could 
suffer.  Pale,  speechless,  aghast,  the  most  horrid  ideas  took  posses- 
sion of  his  mind ; yet  he  sought  not  to  repel  them,  for  anything  was 
preferable  to  the  shame  he  saw  awaiting  him. 

Lord  Mortimer’s  indignation  was  excited  by  the  aspersions  cast  upon 
his  father;  aspersions  he  imputed  entirely  to  the  malice  of  Lady  Euphra- 
sia, and  which  from  the  character  of  Lord  Cherbury,  he  deemed  it  unne- 
cessary to  attempt  refuting.  But  alas!  what  a shock  did  his  noble,  his 
unsuspicious  nature  receive,  when,  in  a short  time  after  the  perusal  of  her 
letter,  one  from  Freelove  was  brought  him,  which  fully  proved  the  truth 
of  her  assertions.  Freelove,  in  his  little  trifling  manner  expressed  his 
hopes  that  there  would  be  no  difference  between  his  lordship  and 
liim,  for  wliom  he  expressed  the  most  entire  friendship,  on  accour  t 


584 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


of  the  fair  lady  who  had  honoured  him  with  her  regard : declared 
her  partiality  was  quite  irresistible : and  moreover  that  in  love,  as  in 
war,  every  advantage  was  allowable : begged  to  trouble  his  lordship 
with  his  compliments  to  Lord  Cherbury,  and  a request  that  every- 
thing might  be  prepared  to  settle  matters  between  them  on  his  return 
from  his  matrimonial  expedition.  An  immediate  compliance  with 
this  request,  he  was  convinced,  could  not  be  in  the  least  distressing ; 
and  it  was  absolutely  essential  to  him,  from  the  eclat  with  which  he 
designed  Lady  Euphrasia  Freelove  should  make  her  bridal  entry  into 
public.  As  to  the  report,  he  said,  which  he  had  heard  relative  to 
Lord  Cherbury’s  losing  the  fortune  which  was  intrusted  to  his  care 
for  him  at  the  gaming  table,  he  quite  disbelieved  it. 

The  most  distressing,  the  most  mortifying  sensations  took  posses- 
sion of  Lord  Mortimer  at  this  part  of  the  letter ; it  explained  the 
reasons  of  Lord  Cherbury’s  strong  anxiety  for  an  alliance  with  the 
Eosline  family  which  Lord  Mortimer  indeed  had  often  wondered  at, 
he  at  once  pitied,  condemned,  and  blushed  for  him.  He  stole  a glance 
at  his  father,  and  his  deep  despairing  look  filled  him  with  horror. 
He  resolved,  the  first  opportunity,  to  declare  his  knowledge  of  the 
fatal  secret  which  oppressed  him,  and  his  resolution  of  making  any 
sacrifice  which  could  possibly  remove  or  lessen  his  inquietude. 

Lord  Cherbury  was  anxious  to  fiy  from  the  now  hated  castle,  eie 
farther  confusion  overtook  him.  H^  mentioned  his  intention  of 
immediately  departing,  an  intention  opposed  by  the  marquis,  but  in 
which  he  was  steady,  and  also  supported  by  his  son. 

Every  thing  was  ready  for  their  departure,  when  Lord  Cherbury, 
overwhelmed  by  the  dreadful  agitations  he  experienced,  was  seized 
with  a fit  of  the  most  violent  and  alarming  nature ; he  was  carried  to 
a chamber,  and  recourse  was  obliged  to  be  had  to  a physician,  ere  the 
restoration  of  his  senses  was  effected ; but  he  was  then  so  weak,  that 
the  physician  declared,  if  not  kept  quiet,  a return  of  his  disorder 
might  be  expected. 

Lord  Mortimer,  tenderly  impatient  to  lighten  the  burthen  of  his 
father’s  mind,  dismissed  the  attendants  as  soon  as  he  possibly  could, 
and  then  in  the  most  delicate  terms  declared  his  knowledge  of  his 
situation. 

Lord  Cherbury  at  this  started  up  in  the  most  violent  paroxysm  ol 
anguish,  and  vowed  he  never  would  survive  the  discovery  of  liis 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


585 


Deing  a riilain.  With  difficulty  could  Lord  Mortimer  compose  him, 
but  it  was  long  ere  he  could  prevail  on  him  to  hear  what  he  wished 
to  say. 

Few  there  were,  he  said,  who  at  some  period  of  their  lives,  he 
believed,  were  not  led  into  actions,  which  upon  reflection  they  had 
reason  to  regret ; he  thought  not,  he  meant  not  to  speak  slightly  Ot 
human  nature,  he  only  wished  to  prove,  that  liable  as  we  all  are  to 
frailty — a frailty  intended  no  doubt  to  check  the  arrogance  of  pride 
and  presumption,  we  should  not  suffer  the  remembrances  of  error, 
when  once  sincerely  repented  of  to  plunge  us  into  despair,  particularly 
when,  as  far  as  in  our  power,  we  meant  to  atone  for  it. 

Thus  did  Lord  Mortimer  attempt  to  calm  the  dreadful  conflicts  of 
his  father’s  mind,  who  still  continued  to  inveigh  against  himself. 

“ The  sale  of  Tudor  Hall,”  Lord  Mortimer  proceeded,  “ and 
mortgages  upon  Lord  Cherbury’s  estates  would  enable  his  father  to 
discharge  his  debt  to  Mr.  Freelove.  He  knew,”  he  said,  “ it  was 
tenderness  to  him  which  had  prevented  him  ere  this  from  adopting 
such  a plan ; but  he  besought  him  to  let  no  farther  consideration  on 
his  account  make  him  delay  fulfilling  immediately  the  claims  of 
honour  and  justice.  lie  besought  him  to  believe  his  tranquillity  was 
more  precious  to  him  than  any  thing  in  life,  that  the  restoration  of 
his  peace  was  far  more  estimable  to  him  than  the  possession  of  the 
most  brilliant  fortune ; a possession  which,”  continued  Lord  Mortimer, 
deeply  sighing,  “ I am  well  convinced,  will  not  alone  yield  happiness. 
I have  long,”  said  he,  looked  with  an  eye  of  cool  indifference  on  the 
pomps,  the  pageantries  of  life : disappointed  in  my  tenderest  hopes 
and  expectations,  wealth,  merely  on  my  own  account  has  long  been 
valueless  to  me : its  loss  I make  no  doubt,  nay,  I am  convinced,  I 
shall  have  reason  to  consider  as  a blessing ; it  will  compel  me  to  make 
those  exertions  which  its  possession  would  have  rendered  unneces- 
sary, and  by  doing  so,  in  all  probability  remove  from  my  heart  that 
sadness  which  has  so  long  clung  about  it,  and  enervated  all  its 
powers;  a profession  lies  open  to  receive  me,  which,  had  I been 
permitted  at  a much  earlier  period,  I should  have  embraced,  for  a 
military  life  was  always  my  passion.  At  the  post  of  danger  I may 
perhaps  have  the  happiness  of  performing  services  for  my  country, 
which  while  loitering  supinely  in  the  shade  of  prosperity  I could 
never  have  done.  Thus,  my  dear  father,”  he  continued,  ‘‘  you  see 

25* 


58G 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


how  erroneous  we  are  in  opinions  we  often  form  of  things,  since 
what  we  often  consider  as  the  bitterest  evil,  leads  to  the  most  supreme 
good.  We  will,  as  soon  as  possible,  hasten  every  thing  to  be  prepared 
for  Freelove,  and  thus  I make  no  doubt,  disappoint  the  little  malice 
oMis  soul. 

My  aunt,  my  sister,  are  unacquainted  with  your  uneasiness,  nor 
shall  an  intimation  of  it  from  me  ever  transpire  to  them ; of  fortune, 
sufficient  will  remain  to  allow,  though  not  the  splendours,  the  com- 
forts, and  elegancies  of  life.  As  for  me,  the  deprivation  of  what  is 
falsely  termed  my  accustomed  indulgences,  will  be  the  most  salutary 
and  efficacious  thing  that  could  possibly  happen  to  me.  In  short  I 
believe  that  the  realization  of  my  plan  will  render  me  happy ; since 
with  truth  I can  assure  you,  its  anticipation  has  already  given  more 
pleasure  to  my  soul,  than  I thought  it  would  ever  have  again 
enjoyed.” 

Lord  Oherbury,  overcome  by  the  tenderness,  the  virtue  of  his  son, 
by  the  sacrifice  he  so  willingly  offered,  so  strenuously  insisted  on 
making,  of  his  paternal  fortune,  could  not  for  some  minutes  speak. 
At  length  the  struggling  emotions  of  his  soul  found  utterance. 

‘‘  Oh ! virtue,”  he  exclaimed,  while  the  tears  of  love,  of  gratitude, 
of  contrition,  flowed  from  his  eyes,  and  fell  upon  the  hand  of  his  soi\ 
clasped  within  his,  “ oh ! virtue,  I cannot  say,  like  Brutus,  thou  art 
but  a shade:  no,  here  in  this  invaluable  son  thou  art  personifled — 
this  son,  whom  I so  cruelly  deceived,  so  bitterly  distressed. — Oh ! 
gracious  powers,  would  not  that  heroic,  that  heaven-born  disposition, 
which  now  leads  him  to  sign  away  his  paternal  fortune  for  my  sake 
have  also  led  him  to  a still  greater  resignation,  the  sacrifice  of  his 
Amanda,  had  I entrusted  him  with  my  wretched  situation.  Oh ! had 
I conflded  in  him,  what  an  act  of  baseness  should  I have  prevented 
his  experiencing?  but  to  save  my  own  guilty  confusion,  I drew 
wretchedness  upon  his  head,  I wrung  every  flbre  of  his  heart  with 
agony,  by  making  him  believe  its  dearest,  its  most  valuable  object 
unworthy  of  his  regard. 

Mortimer  started — he  gasped — he  repeated,  in  faltering  accents, 
these  last  words;  his  soul  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst  its  mortal 
bounds,  and  soar  to  another  region,  to  hear  an  avowal  of  Amanda’s 
purity. 

“ Oh ! Mortimer,”  cried  the  earl,  in  the  deep  desponding  tone  of 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


587 


anguisli,  liow  shall  I dare  to  lift  my- eyes  to  thine,  after  the  avowaZ 
of  the  injustice  I have  done  one  of  the  most  amiable  and  loveliest  of 
human  beings  ?” 

“ Oh  ! tell  me,”  cried  Mortimer,  in  breathless  trembling  agitation, 
“tell  me  if  indeed  she  is  all  my  fond  heart  once  believed  her  to  be? 
in  mercy,  in  pity,  delay  not  to  inform  me  ?” 

Slov^-ly,  in  consequence  of  his  weakness,  but  with  all  the  willing- 
ness of  a contrite  spirit,  anxious  to  do  justice  to  the  injured,  did  Lord 
Oherbury  reveal  all  that  had  passed  between  him  and  Amanda, 
“Poor  Fitzalan,”  cried  he,  as  he  finished  his  relation,  “poor unhappy 
friend ; from  thy  cold  grave  couldst  thou  have  known  the  transactions 
of  this  world,  how  must  thy  good  and  feeling  spirit  have  reproached 
me  for  my  barbarity  to  thy  orphan  in  robbing  her  of  the  only  stipend 
thy  adverse  fortune  had  power  to  leave  her — a pure  and  spotless 
fame  ?” 

Lord  Mortimer  groaned  with  anguish ; every  reproachful  word  he 
had  uttered  to  Amanda  darted  upon  his  remembrance,  and  were  like 
so  many  daggers  to  his  heart.  It  was  his  father  that  oppressed  her ; 
this  knowledge  aggravated  his  feelings,  but  stifled  his  reproaches ; it 
was  a father,  contrite,  perhaps,  at  the  very  moment  stretched  upon  a 
death  bed — therefore  he  forgave  him. 

lie  cast  his  eyes  around,  as  if  in  that  moment  he  had  hoped  to 
behold  her,  have  an  opportunity  of  falling  prostrate  at  her  feet,  and 
imploring  her  forgiveness:  he  cast  his  eyes  around  as  if  imagining  he 
should  see  her,  and  be  allowed  to  fold  her  to  his  beating  heart,  and 
ask  her  soft  vpice  to  pronounce  his  pardon. 

“ Oh ! thou  lovely  mourner,”  he  exclaimed  to  himself  while  a gush 
of  sorrow  burst  from  his  eyes,  “oh!  thou  lovely  mourner,  when  I 
censured,  reviled,  upbraided  you,  even  at  that  very  period  your  heart 
was  suffering  the  most  excruciating  anguish : Yes,  Amanda,  he  who 
would  willingly  have  laid  down  his  life  to  yield  thee  peace,  even  he 
was  led  to  aggravate  thy  woes ; with  what  gentleness,  what 
unexampled  patience  didst  thou  bear  my  reproaches!  no  sudden  ray 
of  indignation  for  purity  so  insulted,  innocence  arraigned,  flaslied 
from  thy  eyes ; the  beams  of  meekness  and  resignation  alone  stole 
from  underneath  their  tearful  lids. 

“JIo  sweet  hope  of  being  able  to  atone,  no  delightful  idea  of  being 
able  to  make  reparation  for  my  injustice,  now  alleviates  the  poignancy 


588 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  iny  feelings  : since  fate  interposed  between  ns  in  the  hour  of  pi  os- 
peri  ty,  I cannot,  in  tlie  bleak  and  chilling  period  of  adversity,  seek  to 
unite  your  destiny  with  mine,  now  almost  the  child  of  want  myself,  a 
soldier  of  fortune  obliged  by  the  sword  to  earn  my  bread,  I cannot  think 
of  leading  you  into  difficulties  and  dangers  greater  than  you  ever  oefore 
experienced.  Oh ! my  Amanda,  may  the  calm  shade  of  security  1)0 
forever  thine  ; thy  Mortimer,  thy  ever  faithful,  ever  adoring  Mortimer, 
will  not  from  any  selfish  consideration,  seek  to  lead  thee  from  it.  If 
thy  loss  be  agonizing,  oh ! how  much  more  agonizing  to  possess,  but 
to  see  thee  in  danger  of  distress ; “ I will  go,  then,  into  new  scenes  of 
life,  wuth  only  thy  dear,  thy  sAveet  and  worshipped  idea  to  cheer  and 
support  me,  an  idea  I shall  lose  but  with  life,  and  which  to  know  I 
may  cherish,  indulge,  adore,  without  a reproach  for  weakness  in  so 
doing,  is  a sweet  and  soothing  consolation.” 

The  indulgence  of  feelings,  such  as  his  language  expressed,  he  w^as 
obliged  to  forego,  in  order  to  fulfil  the  wish  he  felt  of  alleviating  the 
situation  of  his  father : but  his  attention  was  unable  to  lighten  the 
anguish  wffiich  oppressed  the  mind  of  Lord  Cherbury ; remorse  for 
his  past  conduct,  mortification  at  being  lessened  in  the  opinion  of  his 
son,  sorrow  from  the  injury  he  was  compelled  to  do  him,  to  bo 
extricated  from  the  power  of  Freelove,  all  preyed  upon  his  mind, 
produced  the  most  violent  agitations,  and  an  alarming  repetition  of 
fits. 

Things  remained  in  this  situation  for  a few  days,  during  which 
time  no  intelligence  had  been  received  of  Euphrasia,  when  one 
morning,  when  Lord  Mortimer  was  sitting  for  a few  miiyites  with  the 
marquis  and  marchioness,  a servant  entered  the  apartment  and 
informed  his  lord  that  a gentleman  was  just  arrived  at  the  castle, 
who  requested  to  be  introduced  to  his  presence.  The  marquis  and 
marchioness  instantly  concluded  this  was  some  person  sent  as  an 
intercessor  from  Lady  Euphrasia,  and  they  instantly  admitted  him 
in  order  to  have  an  opportunity  of  assuring  her  ladyship,  through  his 
means,  it  must  be  some  time  (if  indeed  at  all)  ere  they  could  possibly 
for^ve  her  disrespect  and  disobedience. 

Lord  Mortimer  would  have  retired,  but  was  requested  to  stay,  and 
complied,  prompted  by  curiosity  to  hear  what  kind  of  apology  or 
message  Lady  Euphrasia  had  sent.  A man  of  a most  pleasing  appear- 
ance entered,  and  was  received  with  the  most  frigid  politeness,  lie 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


589 


looked  embarrassed,  agitated,  even  distressed.  He  attempted  several 
times  to  speak,  but  the  words  still  died  away  undistinguished.  At 
‘ength  the  marchioness,  yielding  to  the  natural  impetuosity  of  her 
soul,  hastily  desired  he  would  reveal  what  had  procured  them  the 
honour  of  his  visit. 

“A  circumstance  of  the  most  unhappy  nature,  madam,”  he  replied, 
in  a hesitating  voice,  ‘‘  I came  with  a hope,  the  expectation  of  being 
able  to  break  it  by  degrees,  so  as  not  totally  to  overpower,  but  I find 
myself  unequal  to  the  distressing  task.” 

“ I fancy,  sir,”  cried  the  marchioness,  “ both  the  marquis  and  I aro 
already  aware  of  the  circumstances  you  allude  to.” 

‘‘Alas  madam,”  said  the  stranger,  fixing  his  eyes  with  a mournfm 
earnestness  on  her  face,  “I  cannot  think  so;  if  you  were,  it  wouk 
not  be  in  human,  in  paternal  nature  to  appear  as  you  now  do.”  lie 
stopped,  he  turned  pale,  he  trembled,  his  emotions  became  conta- 
gious. 

“Tell  me,”  said  the  marquis,  in  a voice  scarcely  articulate,  “i 
beseech  you,  without  delay,  the  meaning  of  your  words.” 

The  stranger  essayed  to  speak,  but  could  not;  words  indeed  were 
scarcely  necessary  to  declare  that  he  had  something  shocking  to 
reveal.  Ilis  auditors  like  old  Northumberland,  might  have  said. 
“ The  paleness  on  thy  cheeks  is  apter  than  thy  tongue  to  tell  thy 
errand.” 

“Something  dreadful  has  happened  to  my  child,”  said  the  mar- 
chioness, forgetting  at  that  agonizing  moment  all  displeasure. 

“ Alas ! madam”  cried  the  stranger,  whilst  a trickling  tear  denoted 
his  sensibility  for  the  sorrows  he  was  about  giving  rise  to ; “ alas, 
madam,  your  fears  are  too  weU  founded ; to  torture  you  with  longer 
suspense  would  be  barbarity.  Something  dreadful  has  happened 
indeed — Lady  Euphrasia  in  this  world  will  never  more  be  sensible  of 
your  kindness.”  A wild,  a piercing,  agonizing  shriek  burst  from  the 
lips  of  the  marchioness  as  she  dropped  senseless  from  her  seat.  The 
marquis  was  sinking  from  his,  had  not  Lord  Mortimer,  who  sat  by 
him  timely  started  up,  and  though  trembling  himself  with  horror 
caught  him  in  his  arms.  The  servants  were  summoned,  the  still 
insensible  marchioness  was  carried  to  her  chamber,  the  wretched 
marquis  reviving  in  a few  minutes,  if  that  could  be  called  reviving, 
which  was  only  a keener  perception  of  misery,  demanded,  in  a tone 


690 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


of  anguish,  the  whole  particulars  of  the  sad  event ; yet  scarcely  iiad 
the  stranger  began  to  comply  with  his  request,  ere  with  all  the  A^ild 
inconsistency  of  grief,  he  hid  him  forbear,  and  shuddering,  declared 
he  could  not  listen  to  the  dreadful  particulars ; but  it  were  needless, 
as  well  as  impossible 'to  describe  the  feelings  of  the  wretched  parents, 
who  in  one  moment  beheld  their  hopes,  their  wishes,  their  expecta- 
tions finally  destroyed:  Oh!  what  an  awful  lesson  did  they  inculcate 
of  the  instability  of  human  happiness,  of  the  insufficiency  of  rank  or 
riches  to  retain  it.  This  was  one  of  the  events,  which  Providence,  in 
its  infinite  wisdom,  makes  use  of  to  arrest  the  thoughtless  in  their 
career  of  dissipation,  and  check  the  arrogance  of  pride  and  vanity ; 
when  we  behold  the  proud,  the  wealthy,  the  illustrious,  suddenly  sur- 
prised by  calamity,  and  sinking  beneath  its  strokes,  we  naturally 
refiect  on  the  frail  tenure  of  earthly  possessions,  and  from  the  reflec- 
tions, consider  how  we  may  best  attain  that  happiness  which  cannot 
change;  the  human  heart  is  in  general  so  formed,  as  to  require 
something  great  to  interest  and  affect  it.  Thus  a similiar  misfortune 
happening  to  a person  in  a conspicuous,  and  to  one  in  an  obscure  sit- 
uation, would  not,  in  all  probability,  equally  affect  or  call  home  the 
wandering  thoughts  to  sadness  and  reflection.  The  humble  floweret, 
trampled  to  the  dust,  is  passed  on  with  an  eye  of  careless  indifference; 
but  the  proud  oak,  torn  from  the  earth,  and  levelled  by  the  storm,  is 
viewed  with  wonder  and  affright.  The  horrors  of  the  blow,  which 
overwhelmed  the  marquis  and  marchioness,  were  augmented  by  the 
secret  whispers  of  conscience,  that  seemed  to  say  it  was  a blow  of 
retribution,  from  a Being  all  righteous  and  all  just,  whose  most  sacred 
laws  they  had  violated,  in  oppressing  the  widow  and  defrauding  the 
orphan. — Oh  1 what  an  augmentation  of  misery  is  it  to  think  it  merit- 
ed ; remorse,  like  the  vengeance  of  heaven,  seemed  awakened  now  to 
sleep  no  more ; no  longer  could  they  palliate  their  conduct,  no  longer 
avoid  retrospection,  a retrospection,  which  heightened  the  gloomy 
horrors  of  the  future.  In  Lady  Euphrasia  all  the  hopes,  the  affections 
of  the  marquis  and  marchioness,  were  centered : she  alone  had  ever 
made  them  feel  the  tenderness  of  humanity ; yet  she  was  not  leso  the 
darling  of  their  love,  than  the  idol  of  their  pride : in  her  they  beheld 
the  being  who  was  to  support  the  honours  of  their  house,  and  trans- 
mit their  names  to  posterity ; in  her  they  beheld  the  being  who  gave 
them  the  opportunity  of  gratifying  the  malevolent,  as  well  as  tender 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


691 


and  amoitious  passions  of  their  souls  ; the  next  heir  to  the  marquis’s  * 
title  and  fortune  had  irreconcilably  disobliged  him,  as  a means  there- 
fore of  disappointing  him,  if  on  no  other  account,  Lady  Euphrasia 
would  have  been  regarded  by  them. 

Though  she  had  disappointed  and  displeased  them  by  her  recent  act 
of  disobedience,  and  though  they  had  deemed  it  essential  to  their 
consequence  to  display  that  displeasure,  yet  they  secretly  resolved  not 
long  to  withhold  forgiveness  from  her,  and  also  to  take  immediate 
steps  for  ennobling  Ereelove. 

For  Lady  Euphrasia  they  felt  indeed  a tenderness,  her  heart  for 
them  was  totally  a stranger  to : it  seemed  as  if  cold  and  indifferent  to 
all  mankind,  their  affections  were  stronger  being  confined  in  one 
channel : in  the  step  she  had  taken.  Lady  Euphrasia  only  considered 
the  gratification  of  her  revenge.  Ereelove,  as  the  ward  of  Lord 
Cherbury,  in  honour  to  him  had  been  invited  to  the  nuptials;  he 
accepted  the  invitation,  but  instead  of  accompanying,  promised  to 
folloAV  the  bridal  party  to  the  castle.  A day  or  two  ere  he  intended 
setting  out,  by  some  accidental  chance^  he  got  into  company  with 
the  very  person  to  whom  Lord  Cherbury  had  lost  so  much,  and  on 
whose  account  he  had  committed  an  action  w^hich  had  entailed  tho 
most  excruciating  remorse  upon  him ; this  person  was  acquainted  with 
the  whole  transaction;  he  had  promised  to  keep  his  knowledge  a 
secret,  but  the  promises  of  the  worthless  are  of  little  avail.  A slight 
expression  which,  in  a moment  of  anxiety,  had  involuntarily  dropped 
from  Lord  Cherbury,  had  stung  him  to  the  soul,  because  he  knew  too 
well  its  justice,  and  inspired  him  with  the  most  inveterate  hatred 
and  rancorous  desire  of  revenge.  His  unexpected  meeting  Ereelove 
afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  both  these  propensities,  and 
he  scrupled  not  to  avail  himself  of  it. — Ereelove  was  astonished,  and 
when  the  first  violence  of  astonishment  was  over,  delighted. 

To  triumph  over  the -proud  soul  of  Lord  Cherbury  and  his  son,  was 
indeed  an  idea  which  afforded  rapture ; both  he  had  ever  disliked,  the 
latter  particularly ; he  disliked  him  from  the  superiority  which  he  saw 
in  every  respect  he  possessed  over  himself.  A stranger  to  noble  emu 
lation,  he  sought  not  by  study  or  imitation  to  aspire  to  any  of  those 
graces  or  perfections  he  beheld  in  Lord  Mortimer,  he  sought  alone 
V)  depreciate  them,  and  when  he  found  that  impossible,  beheld  him 
with  greatei  envy  and  malignity  than  ever.  To  wound  Lord  Morti 


592 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


^ mer  through  the  hosom  of  his  father,  to  overwhelm  him  with  confii* 
sion,  hy  publicly  displaying  the  errors  of  that  father,  were  ideas  of 
the  most  exquisite  delight — ^ideas  wdiich  the  wealth  of  worlds  would 
scarcely  have  tempted  him  to  forego ; so  sweet  is  any  triumph, 
however  accidental  or  imaginary,  over  a noble  object  to  an  envious 
mind,  which  ever  hates  that  excellence  it  cannot  reach.  hTo  fear  of 
self-interest  being  injured  checked  his  pleasure ; the  fortune  of  Lord 
Cherbury  he  knew  sufficient  to  answer  for  his  violating  trust ; thus 
he  had  another  source  of  triumph  in  the  prospect  of  having  those  so 
long  considered  as  the  proud  rivals  of  his  wealth  and  splendour,  cast 
into  the  shade ; his  pleasure,  however,  from  this  idea  was  short  lived, 
when  he  reflected  that  Lord  Mortimer’s  union  with  Lady  Euphrasia 
would  totally  exempt  him  from  feeling  any  inconveniency  from  his 
father’s  conduct;  hut  could  not  this  union  be  prevented!  Ereelove 
asked  himself:  he  still  wanted  a short  period  of  being  of  age,  conse- 
quently had  no  right  at  present  to  demand  a settlement  of  his  affairs 
from  Lord  Cherbury ; he  might,  however,  privately  inform  Lady 
Euphrasia  of  the  affair  so  recently  communicated  to  him.  ETo  sooner 
did  he  conceive  this  scheme,  than  he  glowed  with  impatience  to  put 
it  into  execution : he  hastened  to  tlie  marquis’s,  whither,  indeed,  the 
extravagant  and  foppish  preparations  he  had  made  for  the  projected 
nuptials  had  before  prevented  his  going,  and  took  the  first  opportuni- 
ty which  offered  of  revealing  to  Lady  Euphrasia,  as  if  from  tlie 
purest  friendship,  the  conduct  of  Lord  Cherbury,  and  the  derange- 
ment of  his  affairs. 

Lady  Euphrasia  was  at  once  surprised  and  incensed;  the  reason  for 
an  union  between  her  and  his  son  being  so  ardently  desired  hy  Lord 
Cherbury,  was  now  fully  explained,  and  she  beheld  herself  as  an 
object  addressed  merely  from  a view  of  repairing  a ruined  fortune; 
but  this  view  she  resolved  to  disappoint.  Such  was  the  implacable 
nature  of  her  disposition,  that  had  this  disappointment  occasioned  the 
destruction  of  her  own  peace,  it  would  not  have  made  her  relinquish 
, it,  hut  this  was  not  the  case ; in  sacrificing  all  ideas  of  an  union  with 
Lord  Mortimer  to  her  offended  pride,  she  sacrificed  no  wish  or  incli- 
nation of  her  soul.  Lord  Mortimer,  though  the  object  of  her  admira- 
tion, had  never  been  the  object  of  her  love;  she  was  indeed  incapable 
of  feeling  that  passion;  her  admiration  had,  however,  long  since 
given  place  to  resentment,  at  the  cool  indifference  with  which  ho 


CHILDREN  OP  THE  ABBEY. 


593 


regarded  her;  slie  would  have  opposed  a marriage  with  him,  hut  for*^ 
a fear  that  he  might,  thus  freed,  attach  himself  to  Amanda.  The 
moment,  however,  she  knew  a union  with  her  was  necessary  for  the 
establishment  of  his  fortune,  fear,  with  every  consideration  which 
could  oppose  it,  vanished  before  the  idea  of  disappointing  his  -views 
and  retaliating  upon  him  that  uneasiness  he  had,  from  wounded  pride, 
made  her  experience  by  his  cold  and  altered  behaviour  to  her. 

She  at  first  determined  to  acquaint  the  marquis  of  what  she  had 
heard,  but  a little  refiection  made  her  drop  this  determination.  He 
had  always  professed  a warm  regard  for  Lord  Glierbury,  and  she 
feared  that  regard  would  still  lead  him  to  insist  on  the  nuptials  taking 
place ; she  was  not  long  in  concerting  a scheme  to  render  such  a mea- 
sure impracticable,  and  Freelove  she  resolved  to  make  an  instrument . 
for  forwarding,  or  rather  executing  her  revenge.  She  hesitated  not 
to  say  she  had  always  disliked  Lord  Mortimer,  that  in  short  there 
was  but  one  being  she  could  ever  think,  ever  hope  to  be  happy  with. 
Her  broken  sentences,  her  looks,  her  affected  confusion,  all  revealed 
to  Freelove  that  he  was  that  object:  the  rapture  this  discovery 
inspired  he  could  not  conceal ; the  flattering  expressions  of  Lady 
Euphrasia  were  repaid  by  the  most  extravagant  compliments,  the 
warmest  professions,  the  strongest  assurances  of  never  dying  love ; 
this  soon  led  to  what  she  desired,  and  in  a short  space  an  elopement 
was  agreed  to,  and  every  thing  relative  to  it  settled.  Freelove’s  own 
servants  and  equipage  were  at  the  castle,  and  consequently  but  little 
difiSculty  attended  the  arrangement  of  their  plan.  In  Lady  Euphra- 
sia’s  eyes,  Freelove  had  no  other  value,  than  that  he  now  merely 
derived  from  being  an  instrument  in  gratifying  the  haughty  and 
revengeful  passions  of  her  nature.  She  regarded  him  indeed  with 
sovereign  contempt ; his  fortune,  however,  she  knew  would  give  her 
consequence  in  the  world,  and  she  was  convinced  she  should  find  him 
quite  that  easy  convenient  husband,  which  a woman  of  fashion  finds 
so  necessary  : in  short,  she  looked  forward  to  being  the  uncontrolled 
mistress  of  her  own  actions,  and  without  a doubt  but  that  she  should 
meet  many  objects  as  deserving  her  admiration,  and  infinitely  more 
grateful  for  it  than  ever  Lord  Mortimer  had  been. 

Flushed  with  such  pleasing  prospects,  she  quitted  the  castle — that 
s^astle  she  was  destined  never  more  to  see  ; at  the  moment,  the  very 
moment  she  smiled  with  joy  and  expectation,  the  shaft,  the  unerring 
shaft  was  raised  against  her  breast. 


504 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Tlie  marriage  ceremony  over,  they  hastened  to  the  vicinity  of  the 
castle,  in  order  to  send  an  apologising  letter  as  usual  on  such  occa- 
sions. The  night  was  dark  and  dreary,  the  road  rugged  and  danger- 
ous, the  postillions  ventured  to  say,  it  would  he  better  to  halt  for  .the 
night,  but  this  was  opposed  by  Lady  Euphrasia.  They  were  within  a 
few  miles  of  the  destined  termination  of  their  journey,  and  pursuant 
to  her  commands  they  proceeded.  In  a few  minutes  after  this  the 
horses,  startled  by  a sudden  light  which  gleamed  across  the  path,  began 
plunging  in  the  most  alarming  manner.  A frightful  precipice  lay  on 
one  side,  and  the  horses,  in  spite  of  aU  the  efforts  of  the  postillions, 
continued  to  approach  it.  Ereelove,  in  this  dreadful  moment,  lost  all 
consideration  hut  for  himself — he  hurst  open  the  chariot  door,  and 
leaped  into  the  road.  His  companion  was  unable  to  follow  his  exam- 
ple ; she  had  fainted  at  the  first  •intimation  of  danger.  The  postillions 
with  difficulty  dismounted ; the  other  servants  came  to  their  assistance, 
and  endeavoured  to  restrain  the  horses : every  effort  was  useless, 
they  broke  from  their  hold,  and  plunged  down  the  precipice.  The 
servants  had  heard  the  chariot  door  open,  they  therefore  concluded, 
for  it  was  too  dark  to  see,  that  both  their  master  and  Lady  Euphrasia 
were  safe.  But  who  can  describe  their  horror,  when  a loud  shriek 
from  him  declared  her  situation.  Some  of  them  immediately  has- 
tened, as  fast  as  their  trembling  limbs  could  carry  them,  to  the  house 
adjoining  the  road,  from  whence  the  fatal  light  had  gleamed  which 
caused  the  sad  catastrophe ; they  revealed  it  in  a few  words,  and 
implored  immediate  assistance.  The  master  of  the  house  was  a man 
of  the  greatest  humanity ; he  was  inexpressibly  shocked  at  what  lie  had 
heard,  and  joined  himself  in  giving  the  assistance  that  was  desired. 

With  Ian  thorns  they  proceeded  down  a winding  path,  cut  in  the 
precipice,  and  soon  discovered  the  objects  of  their  search.  The 
horses  were  already  dead,  the  chariot  was  shattered  to  pieces ; they 
took  up  some  of  the  fragments  and  discovered  beneath  them  the  lifeless 
body  of  the  unfortunate  Lady  Euphrasia. 

The  stranger  burst  into  tears  at  the  sight  of  so  much  horror,  and 
in  a voice  scarcely  audible,  gave  orders  for  her  being  conveyed  to  his 
house,  but  when  a better  light  gave  a more  perfect  view  of  tlie 
mangled  remains,  all  acknowledged  that,  since  so  fatal  an  accident 
had  befallen  her.  Heaven  was  merciful  in  taking  a life,  whose  conti- 
nuance would  have  made  her  endure  the  most  excruciating  to/tures. 

Ereelove  was  now  inquired  for;  he  had  fainted  on  the  road,  but  ip 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


505 


a few  minutes  after  he  was  brought  in,  recovered  his  senses,  and  the 
first  use  he  made  of  them  was  to  inquire  whether  he  was  dead  or  alive ; 
upon  receiving  the  comfortable  assurance  of  the  latter,  he  congratu- 
lated himself  in  a manner  so  warm,  upon  his  escape,  as  plainly  proved 
self  was  his  whole  and  sole  consideration.  No  great  preparation,  on 
account  of  his  feelings,  was  requisite  to  inform  him  of  the  fate  of 
Lady  Euphrasia';  he  shook  his  head  on  hearing  it;  said  it  was  what 
he  already  guessed,  from  the  devilish  plunge  of  the  horses ; declared 
it  was  a most  unfortunate  affair,  and  expressed  a kind  of  terror  at 
what  the  marquis  might  say  to  it,  as  if  he  could  have  been  accused 
of  being  accessory  to  it. 

Mr.  Murray,  the  gentleman  whose  house  had  received  him,  offered 
to  undertake  the  distressing  task  of  breaking  the  affair  to  Lady 
Euphrasia’s  family,  an  offer  Ereelove  gladly  accepted,  declaring  he 
felt  himself  too  much  disordered  in  mind  and  body  to  be  able  to  give 
any  directions  relative  to  Avhat  was  necessary  to  be  done. 

How  Mr.  Murray  executed  his  task  is  already  known ; but  it  was 
long  ere  the  emotions  of  the  marquis  would  suffer  him  to  say,  he 
wished  the  remains  of  Lady  Euphrasia  to  be  brought  to  the  castle, 
that  all  the  honours  due  to  her  birth  should  be  paid  them.  This  was 
accordingly  done,  and  the  castle,  so  lately  ornamented  for  her  nuptials, 
was  hung  with  black,  and  all  the  pageantries  of  death. 

The  marquis  and  marchioness  confined  themselves,  in  the  deepest 
anguish,  to  tneir  apartments : their  domestics,  filled  with  terror  and 
amazement,  glided  about  like  pale  spectres,  and  all  was  a scene  of 
solemnity  ano  sadness. 

Every  moment  Lord  Mortimer  could  spare  from  his  father  he 
devoted  to  the  marquis.  Lady  Euphrasia  had  ever  been  an  object  of 
indifference,  nay,  of  dislike  to  him;  but  the  manner  of  her  death, 
notwithstanding,  shocked  him  to  the  soul ; his  dislike  was  forgotten ; 
he  thought  of  her  only  with  pity  and  compassion,  and  the  tears  he 
mingled  with  the  marquis’s  were  the  tears  of  unfeigned  sympathy 
and  regret. 

Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta  were  equally  attentive  to  the 
marchioness ; the  time  not  spent  with  Lord  Oherbury  was  devoted  to 
her.  They  used  not  unavailing  arguments  to  conquer  a grief  which 
nature  as  her  rightful  tribute  demands ; but  they  soothed  that  grief 
ay  shewing  they  sincerely  mourned  its  source. 

Lord  Oherbury  had  but  short  intervals  of  reason ; those  intervals 


596 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


•were  employed  by  Lord  Mortimer  in  trying  to  compose  his  mind,  and 
by  him  in  blessing  his  son  for  those  endeavours,  and  congratulating 
himself  on  the  prospect  of  approaching  dissolution. 

His  words  unutterably  affected  Lord  Mortimer,  he  had  reason  to 
believe  they  were  dictated  by  a proplietic  spirit ; and  the  dismal  peal 
which  rung  from  morning  till  night  for  Lady  Euphrasia,  sounded  in 
his  ears  as  the  knell  of  his  expiring  father. 

Things  were  in  this  situation  in  the  castle,  when  Oscar  and  his 
friend  Sir  Charles  Bingley,  arrived  at  it,  and  without  sending  in  their 
names,  requested  immediate  permission  to  the  marquis’s  presence, 
upon  business  of  importance. 

Their  request  was  complied  with,  from  an  idea  that  they  came 
from  Freelove,  to  whom  the  marquis  and  marchioness,  from  respect 
and  affection  to  the  memory  of  their  daughter,  had  determined  to  pay 
every  attention. 

The  marquis  knew  and  was  personally  known  to  Sir  Charles ; he 
was  infinitely  surprised  by  his  appearance ; but  how  much  was  that 
surprise  increased,  when  Sir  Charles,  taking  Oscar  by  the  hand,  pre- 
sented him  to  the  marquis  as  the  son  of  Lady  Fitzalan,  the  rightful 
heir  of  the  Earl  of  Dunreath. 

The  marquis  was  confounded---he  trembled  at  these  words:  and 
his  confusion,  had  such  a testimony  been  wanting,  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  prove  his  guilt. 

He  at  last,  though  with  a faltering  voice,  desired  to  know  by  what 
means  Sir  Charles  could  justify  or  support  his  assertion. 

Sir  Charles,  for  Oscar  was  too  much  agitated  to  speak,  as  briefly  as 
possible  related  all  the  particulars  which  had  led  to  the  discovery  of 
the  earl’s  will ; and  his  frienvL  he  added,  with  the  generosity  of  a 
noble  mind,  wished  as  much  as  possible  to  spare  the  feelings  and  save 
the  honour  of  those  with  whom  he  was  connected ; which  nothing  but 
a hesitation  in  complying  with  his  just,  and  well  supported  claim 
could  destroy. 

The  marquis’s  agitation  increased;  already  was  he  stripped  of 
happiness,  and  he  now  saiv  himself  on  the  point  of  being  stripped  of 
honour.  An  hour  before  he  had  imagined  his  wretchedness  could  not  he 
augmented ; he  was  now  convinced  human  misery  cannot  be  complete 
witliout  the  loss  of  reputation.  In  the  idea  of  being  esteen.ed,  or 
being  thought  undeserving  our  misfortunes,  there  is  a sweet,  a secret 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


697 


balm,  wlilcb  meliorates  the  greatest  sorroYT.  Of  riches,  in  his  own 
right,  the  marquis  ever  possessed  more  than  sufficient  for  all  his 
expenses;  those  expenses  would  now,  comparatively  speaking,  be 
reduced  within  very  narrow  bounds : for  the  vain  pride  which  had 
led  him  to  delight  in  pomp  and  ostentation,  died  with  Lady  Euphrasia. 
Since  therefore  of  his  fortune  such  a superabundance  would  remain, 
it  was  unnecessary  as  well  as  unjust,  to  detain  what  he  had  no  pre- 
tensions to : but  he  feared  tamely  acquiescing  to  this  unexpected 
claim,  would  be  to  acknowledge  himself  a villain : ’tis  true,  indeed, 
that  his  newly  felt  remorse  had  inspired  him  with  a wish  of  making 
reparation  for  his  past  injustice;  but  false  shame  starting  up,  hitherto 
opposed  it , and  even  now,  when  an  opportunity  offered  of  accom- 
plishing his  v>'ish,  still  continued  to  oppose  it,  lest  the  scorn  and 
contempt  he  dreaded  should  at  length  be  his  portion  for  his  long 
injustice. 

Irresolute  how  to  act,  he  sat  for  some  time  silent  and  embarrassed, 
till  at  last  recollecting  his  manner  was  probably  betraying  what  ho 
wished  to  conceal,  namely,  his  knowledge  of  the  will,  he  said,  with 
some  sternness,  “that  till  he  inspected  into  the  affairs,  so  recently 
laid  before  him,  he  could  not,  nor  was  it  to  be  expected  he  should 
say  hovf  he  would  act : an  inspection  which,  under  the  melancholy 
circumstances  he  then  laboured,  he  could  not  possibly  make  for  some 
time.  Had  Mr.  Fitzalan,”  he  added,  “ possessed  in  reality  that  gen- 
erosity Sir  Charles’  partiality  ascribed  to  him,  he  would  not  at  a 
period  so  distressing  have  appeared  to  make  such  a claim.  To  deli- 
cacy and  sensibility  the  privileges  of  grief  were  ever  held  sacred; 
ihose  privileges  they  had  both  violated  ; they  had  intruded  on  his 
sorrows;  they  had  even  insulted  him,  by  appearing  on  such  a 
business  before  him,  ere  the  last  rites  were  paid  to  his  lamented 
ohild.” 

Sir  Charles  and  Oscar  were  inexpressibly  shocked ; both  were 
totally  ignorant  of  the  recent  event. 

Oscar,  as  he  recovered  from  the  surprise  the  marquis’s  words  had 
given  him,  declared  in  the  impassioned  language  of  a noble  mind, 
hurt  by  being  thought  destitute  of  sensibility,  “ that  the  marquis  had 
arraigned  him  unjustly;  had  he  known  of  his  sorrows,”  he  said, 
‘‘nothing  should  have  tem})ted  him  to  intrude  upon  them;  he 
mourned,  he  respected  them ; he  besought  him  to  believe  him  sincere 


598 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


in  what  he  uttered.”  A tear,  an  inroluntary  tear,  as  ho  spoke, 
started  into  his  eye,  and  trickling  down  his  cheek,  denoted  his  sin- 
cerity. 

The  marquis’s  heart  smote  him  as  he  beheld  this  tear ; it  reproached 
him  more  than  the  keenest  words  could  have  done,  and  operated 
more  in  Oscar’s  favour  than  any  arguments  however  eloquent. 

Had  tills  young  man,  thouglit  he,  been  really  illiberal,  when  I 
reproached  him  for  want  of  sensibility,  how  well  might  he  have 
retaliated  upon  me  my  more  flagrant  want  of  justice  and  humanity ; 
but  no,  he  sees  I am  a son  of  sorrow,  and  he  will  not  break  the  reed 
which  Heaven  has  already  smitten. 

Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes : he  involuntarily  extended  his  hand  to 
Oscar ; “ I see,”  said  he,  “ I see  indeed,  I have  unjustly  arraigned  you 
but  I will  endeavour  to  atone  for  my  error ; at  present  rest  satisfled 
with  an  assurance,  that  whatever  is  equitable  shall  be  done,  and  that, 
let  events  turn  out  as  they  may,  I shall  ever  feel  myself  your  friend.” 
Oscar  again  expressed  his  regret  for  having  waited  on  him  at  such  a 
period,  and  requested  he  would  dismiss  for  the  present  the  subject 
they  had  been  talking  of  from  Ifrs  mind;  the  marquis  still  more 
pleased  with  liis  manner,  desired  his  direction^  and  assured  him  ho 
should  hear  from  him  sooner  than  he  expected. 

As  soon  as  they  retired  his  agitation  decreased,  and  of  course  he 
was  better  qualified  to  consider  how  he  should  act ; that  restitution 
his  conscience  prompted,  but  his  false  ideas  of  shame  had  prevented, 
he  now  found  he  should  be  compelled  to  make:  how  to  make  it  there- 
fore so  as  to  avoid  total  disgrace,  was  what  he  considered.  At  last 
he  adopted  a scheme,  which  the  sensibility  of  Oscar,  he  flattered 
himself,  would  enable  him  to  accomplish ; this  was  to  declare,  that  by 
the  Earl  of  Hunreath’s  wiU,  Mr.  Fitzalan  was  heir  to  his  estates,  in 
case  of  the  death  of  Lady  Euphrasia : that  in  consequence  therefore  of 
tliis  event  he  had  come  to  take  possession  of  them;  that  Lady 
Dunreath  (whose  residence  at  Dunreath  Abbey  he  could  not  now 
hope  to  conceal)  was  but  lately  returned  from  a convent  in  France, 
where  for  many  years  she  had  resided.  To  Oscar  he  intended  saying, 
from  her  ill  conduct  he  and  the  marchioness  had  been  tempted  to 
sequester  her  from  the  world,  in  order  to  save  her  from  open  shame 
and  derision;  and  that  her  declaration  of  a will  they  had  always 
believed  the  mere  fabrication  of  her  brain,  in  order,  as  he  suppo^d,, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


599 


to  give  them  uneasiness.  This  scheme  once  formed,  his  heart  felt  a 
little  relieved  of  the  heavy  burthen  of  fear  and  inquietude.  lie 
repaired  to  the  marchioness’s  apartment,  and  broke  the  affair  gently 
to  her,  adding  at  the  same  time,  that  sensible  as  they  now  must  be  of 
the  vanities  and  pursuits  of  human  life,  it  was  time  for  them  to 
endeavour  to  make  their  peace  with  heaven.  Affliction  had  taught 
penitence  to  the  marchioness,  as  well  as  to  her  husband ; she  approved 
of  his  scheme,  and  thought  with  him,  that  the  sooner  their  intention 
of  making  restitution  was  known,  the  greater  would  be  the  proba- 
bility of  its  being  accomplished ; Oscar,  therefore,  the  next  day  receiv- 
ed a letter  from  the  marquis,  specifying  at  once  his  intention  and  his 
wishes.  With  those  wishes  Oscar  generously  complied;  his  noble 
soul  was  superior  to  a triumph  over  a.  fallen  enemy ; and  he  had 
always  wished  rather  to  save  from,  than  expose  the  marquis  to 
disgrace ; he  hastened  as  soon  as  possible  to  the  castle,  agreeable  to  a 
request  contained  in  the  letter,  to  assure  the  marquis  his  conduct 
throughout  the  whole  affair  should  be  regulated  according  to  his 
desire. 

Perhaps  at  this  moment  public  contempt  could  not  have  humbled 
the  marquis  more  than  such  generosity,  when  he  drew  a comparison 
between  himself  and  the  person  he  had  so  long  injured ; the  striking 
contrast  wounded  his  very  soul,  and  he  groaned  at  the  degradation  he 
suffered  in  his  own  eyes.  He  told  Oscar,  as  soon  as  the  last  sad 
duties  were  performed  to  his  daughter,  he  would  settle  every  thing 
with  him,  and  then  perhaps  be  able  to  introduce  him  to  the  mar- 
chioness. He  desired  he  might  take  up  his  residence  in  the  castle, 
and  expressed  a wish  that  he  would  attend  the  funeral  of  Lady 
Euphrasia  as  one  of  the  chief  mourners.  Oscar  declined  the  former ; 
but  promised  with  a faltering  voice  to  comply  with  the  latter  request, 
lie  then  retired,  and  the  marquis,  who  had  been  roused  from  the 
indulgence  of  his  grief  by  a wish  of  preserving  his  character,  again 
relapsed  into  its  wretchedness.  He  desired  Oscar  to  make  no  secret 
of  his  now  being  heir  to  the  Earl  of  Dunreath,  and  said  he  would 
mention  it  himself  in  his  family  ; through  tliis  medium  therefore  did 
this  surprising  intelligence  reach  Lord  Mortimer,  and  his  heart  dilated 
With  sudden  joy  at  the  idea  of  his  Amanda  and  her  brother  at  loaf 
enjoying  prosperity  and  independence. 

In  a few  hours  after  this,  the  sufferings  of  Lord  Oherbury  wor^ 


coo 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY 


terminated;  Ms  last  faltering  accents  pronounced  blessings  on  his 
son.  Oh ! how  sweet  were  these  blessings — how  different  were  tho 
feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer  from  the  callous  sons  of  dissipation,  who 
seem  to  watch  with  impatience  the  last  struggles  of  a parent,  that 
they  may  have  more  extensive  means  of  gratifying  their  inordinate 
desires.  The  feelings  of  Lord  Mortimer  were  soothed  by  reflecting 
that  he  had  done  every  thing  in  his  power  for  restoring  the  tranquillity 
of  his  father,  and  his  regret  was  lessened  by  the  conviction  that  Lord 
Cherbury,  after  the  discovery  of  his  conduct,  could  never  more  in 
this  life  have  experienced  happiness ; he  therefore,  with  tender  piety, 
resigned  him  to  his  God,  humbly  trusting  that  his  penitence  had 
atoned  for  his  frailties,  and  insured  him  felicity. 

He  now  bid  adieu  to  the  castle  and  its  wretched  owners,  and 
accompanied  Lady  Martha  and  his  sister  to  Thornbury,  at  which  the 
burying  place  of  the  family  lay.  Here  he  continued  till  the  remains 
of  his  father  arrived,  and  were  interred;  he  then  proceeded  to 
London,  to  put  into  execution  the  plan  he  had  projected  for  his 
father.  He  immediately  advertised  the  Tudor  estate : a step  of  this 
kind  could  not  be  concealed  from  Lady  Martha;  but  the  mortgages 
on  the  other  estates  he  resolved  carefully  to  guard  from  her  knowledge, 
lest  suspicions  prejudicial  to  the  memory  of  his  father  would  arise  in 
her  mind ; but  during  this  period  the  idea  of  Amanda  was  not  absent 
from  his  soul ; neither  grief  nor  business  could  banish  it  a moment, 
and  agMn  a thousand  fond  and  flattering  hopes  concerning  her  had 
revived,  when  a sudden  blow  dispersed  them  all,  and  plunged  him,  if 
possible,  in  greater  wretchedness  than  he  had  ever  before  experienced. 
He  heard  it  confidently  reported,  that  the  Earl  of  Dunreath’s  sister 
(for  Oscar  had  by  this  time  claimed,  and  been  allowed  to  take  the 
title  of  his  grandfather)  was  to  be  married  to  Sir  Charles  Bing^ey ; 
the  friendship  which  he  knew  subsisted  between  the  earl  and  Sir 
Charles  rendered  this  too  probable;  but  if  a doubt  concerning  it  still 
lingered  in  his  mind,  it  was  destroyed,  when  Sir  Charles  waited  on 
him  to  treat  about  the  purchase  of  Tudor  Hall ; it  instantly  occurred 
that  this  purchase  was  made  by  the  desire  of  Amanda.  Unable  to 
command  his  feelings,  he  referred  Sir  Charles  to  his  agent,  and 
abruptly  retired.  He  called  her  cruel  and  ungrateful ; after  all  his 
sufferings  on  her  account,  did  he  deserve  so  soon  to  be  banished  from 
her  remembrance,  so  soon  supplanted  in  her  affections  by  another,  by 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


60] 


one  too,  who  never  had,  who  never  would  have  an  opportunity  of 
giving  such  proof  as  he  had  done,  of  constancy  and  love  ? She  is  lost 
then,  he  sighed ! she  is  lost  forever  I Oh ! what  avails  the  vindication 
of  her  fame?  Is  it  not  an  augmentation  of  my  misery!  Oh!  my 
father,  of  what  a treasure  did  you  despoil  me?  But  let  me  not 
disturb  the  sacred  ashes  of  the  dead — rest — rest — in  peace— thou 
venerable  author  of  my  being,  and  may  the  involuntary  expression 
of  heart-rending  anguish  be  forgiven ! Amanda,  then,  he  continued, 
after  a pause,  will  indeed  be  mistress  of  Tudor-Hall ; but  never  will  a 
sigh  for  him  who  once  was  its  owner  heave  her  bosom:  she  will 
wander  beneath  those  shades,  where  so  often  she  has  heard  my  vows 
of  unalterable  love — vows,  which  alas!  my  heart  has  too  fully 
observed,  and  listen  to  similar  ones  from  Sir  Charles : well,  this  is  the 
last  stroke  fate  can  level  at  my  peace. 

Lord  Kortimer  (or  as  in  future  we  must  style  him  Lord  Cherbury) 
had  indeed  imagined  that  the  affections  of  Amanda,  like  his  own, 
were  unalterable ; he  had  therefore  indulged  the  rapturous  idea,  that, 
by  again  seeking  an  union  with  her,  he  should  promote  the  happiness 
of  both.  It  is  true,  he  knew  she  would  possess  a fortune  infinitely 
superior  to  what  he  had  now  a right  to  expect ; but  after  the  proofs 
he  had  given  of  disinterested  attachment,  not  only  she,  but  the 
world,  he  was  convinced,  would  acquit  him  of  any  selfish  motives  in 
the  renewal  of  his  addresses.  His  hopes  destroyed,  his  prospects 
blasted,  by  what  he  heard,  he  resolved,  as  soon  as  his  affairs  were 
settled,  to  go  abroad.  The  death  of  his  father  had  rendered  his 
entering  the  army  unnecessary,  and  his  spirits  were  too  much  broken, 
his  health  too  much  impaired,  for  him  voluntarily  now  to  embrace 
that  destiny. 

On  the  purchase  of  Tudor-Hall  being  completed  by  Sir  Charles,  it 
was  necessary  for  Lord  Cherbury  to  see  his  steward ; he  preferred 
going  to  sending  for  him,  prompted  indeed  by  a melancholy  wish  of 
paying  a last  visit  to  Tudor-Hall,  endeared  To  his  heart  by  a thousand 
fond  remembrances.  On  his  arrival,  he  took  up  his  abode  at  the 
steward’s  for  a day  or  two,  after  a strict  injunction  to  him  of  con- 
cealing his  being  there ; it  was  after  a ramble  through  every  spot 
about  the  demesne,  which  he  had  ever  trodden  with  Amanda,  that 
h©  repaired  to  the  library  and  discovered  her ; he  was  ignorant  of 

26 


602 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


her  being  in  the  country.  Ob ! then,  bow  great  was  ber  surprise- 
how  exquisite  bis  eiaotions  at  ber  unexpected  sight ! 

I shall  not  attempt  to  go  over  the  scene  I have  already  tried  to 
describe : suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  desire  she  betrayed  of  hastening 
from  him  be  imputed  to  the  alteration  of  ber  sentiments  with  respect 
to  him  and  Sir  Charles,  when  undeceived  in  this  respect,  bis  rapture 
was  as  great  as  ever  it  bad  before  been  at  the  idea  of  ber  love,  ,and 
like  Amanda,  be  declared  bis  sufferings  were  now  amply  rewarded. 


CHAPTEK  LYII. 

No,  neyer  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We’ll  lire  and  loye  so  true ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
Shall  break  thy  lover’s  too. 

“ But,  my  love,”  cried  Lord  Cberbury,  as  he  wiped  away  the  tears 
which  pity  and  horror  at  the  fate  of  Lady  Euphrasia  bad  caused 
Amanda  to  shed,  ‘‘  will  your  brother,  think  you,  sanction  our  bappL 
ness  ? will  be,  who  might  aspire  so  high  for  a sister,  thus  at  once 
possessed  of  beauty  and  fortune,  bestow  ber  on  one  whose  title  may 
now  almost  be  considered  as  an  empty  one  ?” 

‘‘  Ob,  do  not  wrong  bis  noble  nature  by  such  a doubt,”  exclaimed 
Amanda:  “Yes,  with  pride,  with  pleasure,  with  delight,  will  he 
bestow  his  sister  upon  the  esteemed,  the  beloved  of  ber  heart ; upon 
him  who,  unwarped  by  narrow  prejudice  or  selfish  interest,  sought 
her  in  the  low  shade  of  obscurity,  to  lay,  all  friendless  and  forlorn  as 
she  was,  his  fortune  at  her  feet. 

“ Could  he  indeed  be  ungrateful  to  such  kindness  : could  he  attempt 
to  influence  me  to  another  choice,  my  heart  would  at  once  repulse  the 
effort,  and  avow  its  fixed  determination : but  he  is  incapable  of  such 
conduct;  my  Oscar  is  all  that  is  generous  and  feeling;  need  I say 
more,  than  that  a spirit  congenial  to  yours  animates  his  breast.” 

Lord  Cherbury  clasped  her  to  his  breast : “ dearest,  loveliest  of 
human  beings,”  he  exclaimed,  “shall  I at  length  call  you  mine? 
After  all  my  sorrows  my  difficulties,  shall  I indeed  receive  so 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


603 


precious  a reward  ? Oh ! wonder  not,  my  Amanda,  if  I d :nbt  the 
reality  of  so  sudden  a reverse  of  situation ; I feel  as  if  under  the 
influence  of  a happy  dream ; but  good  Heaven  ! a dream  from  which 
i should  never  wish  to  be  awakened.” 

Amanda  now  recollected,  that  if  she  stayed  mucL  lOnger  from  the 
cottage  she  should  have  some  one  coming  in  quest  of  her ; she 
informed  Lord  Cherbury  of  this,  and  arose  to  depart,  but  he  would 
not  suffer  her  to  depart  alone,  neither  did  she  desire  it. 

The  nurse  and  her  daughter  Betsey  were  in  the  cottage  at  her 
return  to  it : to  describe  the  surprise  of  the  former  at  the  appearance 
of  Lord  Cherbury  is  impossible — a surprise  mingled  with  indignation, 
at  the  idea  of  his  falsehood  to  her  darling  child ; but  when  unde- 
ceived in  that  respect,  her  transports  were  of  the  most  extravagant 
nature. 

“Well,  she  thanked  Heaven,”  she  said,  “she  should  now  see  her 
tear  chilt  hold  up  her  head  again,  and  look  as  handsome  as  ever.  Ay, 
she  had  always  doubted,”  she  said,  “that  his  lordship  was  not  one  of 
the  false-hearted  men  she  had  so  often  heard  her  old  grandmother 
talk  of.” 

“My  good  nurse,”  said  Lord  Cherbury,  smiling,  “you  will  then 
give  me  your  dear  child  with  all  your  heart  ?” 

“Ay,  that  I will,  my  lort,”  she  replied,  “and  this  very  moment 
too,  if  I could.” 

“Well,”  cried  Amanda,  “his  lordship  will  be  satisfied  at  present 
with  getting  his  dinner  from  you.” 

She  then  desired  the  things  to  be  brought  to  the  little  arbour, 
already  described  in  the  beginning  of  this  book,  and  proceeded  to  it 
with  Lord  Cherbury.  ' 

The  mention  of  dinner  threw  the  nurse  and  her  daughter  into  uni- 
versal commotion. 

“ Goodlack ! how  unfortunate  it  was  she  had  nothing  hot  or  nice 
to  lay  pefore  his  lordship ; how  could  she  think  he  could  dine  upon 
cold  lamb  and  salad.  Well,  this  was  all  Miss  Amanda’s  fault,  who 
would  never  let  her  do  as  she  wished.” 

With  the  utmost  difficulty  she  was  persuaded  he  could  dine  upon 
these  things.  The  cloth  was  laid  upon  the  flowery  turf,  beneath 
the  spreading  branches  of  the  arbour.  The  delicacies  of  the  dairy 
were  added  to  their  repast,  and  Betsey  provided  a dessert  ef  new 
filberts. 


604 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


ITever  had  Lord  Cherbury  partaken  of  bo  delicate  a meal,  aever 
had  he  and  Amanda  experienced  such  happiness — a happiness  derived 
from  what  might  be  termed  the  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss.  The 
pleasure,  the  tenderness  of  their  souls,  beamed  in  expressive  glances 
from  their  eyes,  and  they  were  now  more  convinced  than  ever,  tliat 
the  humble  scenes  of  life  were  best  calculated  for  the  promotion  of 
felicity. 

Lord  Cherbury  felt  more  reconciled  than  he  had  done  before  to  the 
diminution  of  his  fortune ; he  yet  retained  sufficient  for  the  comforts, 
and  many  of  the  elegancies  of  life ; the  splendour  he  lost  was  insigni- 
ficant in  his  eyes,  his  present  situation  proved  happiness  could  be 
enjoyed  without  it,  and  he  knew  it  was  equally  disregarded  by  his 
Amanda.  He  asked  himself, 


What  was  the  world  to  them, 

Its  pomps  its  pleasures  and  its  nonsense  all, 
Who  in  each  other  clasp  whatever  fair 
High  fancy  forms,  or  lavish  hearts  can  wish? 


All  nature  looked  gay  and  smiling  around  him.  he  inhaled  the  balmy 
breath  of  opening  flowers,  and  through  the  verdant  canopy  he  sat 
beneath,  he  saw  the  bright  azure  of  the  heavens,  and  felt  the  benig- 
nant influence  of  the  sun,  whose  potent  beams  heightened  to  glow- 
ing luxuriance  the  beauties  of  the  surrounding  landscape.  He 
expressed  his  feelings  to  Amanda ; he  heard  her  declare  the  similarity 
of  hers ; heard  her,  with  all  the  sweet  enthusiasm  of  a refined  and 
animated  mind,  expatiate  on  the  lovely  scene  around  them.  Oh  I 
what  tender  remembrances  did  it  awaken,  and  what  delightful  plans 
of  felicity  did  they  sketch.  Lord  Cherbury  would  hear  from  Amanda 
all  she  had  suffered  since  their  separation ; and  could  his  love  and 
esteem  have  been  increased,  her  patient  endurance  of  the  sorrows  she 
repeated,  would  have  increased  them. 

They  did  not  leave  the  garden  till  a dusky  hue  had  overspread  the 
landscape.  Oh ! with  what  emotions  did  Amanda  watch  the  setting 
sun,  whose  rising  beams  she  had  beheld  with  eyes  obscured  by  tears 
of  sorrow. 

As  they  sat  at  tea  in  the  room,  she  could  not  avoid  noticing  the 
alteration  in  her  nurse’s  dress,  who  attended ; she  had  put  on  all  hei 
holiday  finery,  and,  to  evince  her  wish  of  amusing  her  guests,  had 
sent  for  the  blind  harper,  whom  she  stationed  outside  the  cottage^ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


605 


His  music  drew  a number  of  the  neighbouring  cottagers  about  him, 
and  they  would  soon  have  led  up  a dance  in  the  vale,  had*  not  the 
nurse  prevented  them,  lest  they  should  disturb  her  guest.  lord. 
Cherbury,  however,  insisted  on  their  being  gratified,  and,  sending  for 
his  servant,  ordered  him  to  provide  refreshment  for  them,  and  to 
reward  the  harper. 

He  would  not  leave  Amanda  till  he  had  her  permission  to  come 
the  next  morning,  as  soon  as  he  could  hope  to  see  her ; accordingly 
the  first  voice  she  heard  on  rising,  was  his  chatting  with  the  nurse. 
We  may  believe  she  did  not  spend  many  minutes  at  her  toilet ; the 
neat  simplicity  of  her  dress,  indeed,  never  required  she  should  do  so, 
and  in  a very  short  time  she  joined  him.  They  walked  out  till 
breakfast  was  ready. 

Together  trod  the  morning  dews,  and  gather’d 
In  their  prime,  fresh  blooming  sweets. 

Amanda,  in  hourly  expectation  of  her  brother’s  arrival,  wished, 
ere  he  came,  to  inform  the  inhabitants  of  the  cottage  of  the  alteration 
in  his  fortune.  This,  with  the  assistance  of  Lord  Cherbury,  she  took 
an  opportunity  of  doing  in  the  course  of  the  day  to  the  nurse.  Had 
she  been  sole  relator,  she  feared  she  would  be  overwhelmed  with 
questions.  Joy  and  wonder  were  excited  in  an  extreme  degree  by 
this  relation,  and  nothing  but  the  nurse’s  hurry  and  impatience  to 
communicate  it  to  the  family,  could  have  prevented  her  from  asking 
again  and  again  a repetition  of  it. 

Lord  Cherbury  now,  as  on  the  foregoing  day,  dined  with  Amanda ; 
her  expectations  relative  to  the  speedy  arrival  of  her  brother  were 
not  disappointed.  While  sitting  after  dinner  with  Lord  Cherbury  in 
the  garden,  the  nurse,  half  breathless,  came  running  to  tell  them, 
that  a superb  coach  and  four,  which  to  be  sure  must  be  Lord  Dun- 
reath’s  was  coming  down  the  road. 

Lord  Cherbury  coloured  with  emotion.  Amanda  did  not  wish 
he  and  her  brother  should  meet  till  she  had  explained  everything 
relative  to  him.  By  her  desire  he  retired  to  the  valley  to  which  a 
winding  path  from  the  garden  descended,  whilst  she  hurried  to  the 
cottage  to  receive  and  welcome  her  beloved  brother : their  meeting 
was  at  once  tender  and  affecting ; the  faithful  Edwins  surrounded 
Oscar  with  delight  and  rapture,  pouring  forth,  in  their  simple  style, 


006 


CIIILD.IEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


congratulations  on  liis  liappy  fortune,  and  tlieir  wishes  for  his  long 
enjoying  it.  He  thanked  them  with  a starting  tear  of  sensibility:  he 
assured  them  that  their  attentions  to  his  dear  sister,  his  lamented 
parents,  his  infant  years,  entitled  them  to  his  lasting  gratitude.  As 
soon  as  he  and  Amanda  could  disengage  themselves  from  the  good 
creatures,  without  wounding  their  feelings,  they  retired  to  her  room, 
where  Oscar  related,  as  we  have  already  done,  all  that  passed  between 
him  and  the  Marquis  of  Kosline. 

As  soon  as  the  funeral  of  Lady  Euphrasia  was  over,  the  marquis, 
according  to  his  promise,  settled  every  thing  with  him,  and  put  him 
into  formal  possession  of  Dunreath  Abbey.  By  the  marquis’s  desire 
he  then  waited  upon  Lady  Dunreath  to  inform  her  she  was  at  liberty, 
and  to  request  she  would  not  contradict  the  assertion  of  having  been 
abroad:  Mrs.  Bruce  had  previously  informed  her  of  the  revolution 
of  affairs.  ‘‘  I own,”  continued  Oscar,  “ from  her  cruelty  to  my 
mother,  and  the  depravity  of  her  conduct,  I was  strongly  prejudiced 
against  her,  attributing,  I acknowdedge,  her  doing  justice  to  us,  in 
some  degree,  to  her  resentment  against  the  marquis ; but  the  moment 
I entered  her  apartment  this  prejudice  vanished,  giving  place  to  the 
softer  emotions  of  pity  and  tenderness,  while  a thorough  conviction 
of  her  sincere  repentance  broke  upon  my  soul ; though  prepared  to 
see  a form  reduced  by  affli-ction  and  confinement,  I was  not  by  any 
means  prepared  to  see  a form  so  emaciated,  so  death-like:  a faint 
motion  of  her  head,  as  I entered,  alone  proved  her  existence ; had 
the  world  been  given  me  to  do  so,  I think  I could  not  have  broktin  a 
silence  so  awful.  At  length  she  spoke,  and  in  language  that  pierced 
my  heart,  implored  my  forgiveness  for  the  sufferings  she  had  caused 
me  to  endure.  Eepeatedly  I assured  her  of  it ; but  this  rather 
heightened  than  diminished  her  agitation,  and  tears  and  sobs  spoko 
the  anguish  of  her  soul.  ‘‘  I have  lived,’  she  cried,  ‘ to  justify  tho 
ways  of  Providence  to  men,  and  prove  that,  however  calamity  may 
oppress  the  virtuous,  they  or  their  descendants  shall  at  last  flourish. 
I have  lived  to  see  my  contrite  wish  accomplished,  and  the  last 
summons  will  now  be  a welcome  release.”  She  expressed  an  ardent 
desire  to  see  her  daughter.  ‘ The  pitying  tears  of  a mother,’  sho 
exclaimed,  ‘ may  be  a balm  to  her  wounded  heart.  Oh  ! my 
prophetic  words,  how  often  have  I prayed  that  the  punishment  I 
then  denounced  against  her,  might  be  averted.’ 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


607 


I signified  her  desire,”  continued  Oscar,  “ to  the  marqu's ; ha 
found  the  marchioness  at  first  reluctant  to  it,  from  a secret  dread,  I 
suppose,  of  seeing  an  object  so  injured ; but  she  at  last  consented, 
and  I was  requested  to  bring  Lady  Dunreath  from  the  Abbey,  and 
conduct  her  to  the  marchioness’s  room.  I will  not  attempt  to 
describe  the  scene  which  passed  between,  affection  on  one  hand,  and 
penitence  on  the  other:  the  marchioness  indeed  seemed  truly 
penitent — remorse  and  horror  were  visible  in  her  countenance,  as  she 
gazed  upon  her  injured  parent.  I begged  Lady  Dunreath,  if  agreea- 
ble to  her,  still  to  consider  the  Abbey  as  her  residence ; this,  however, 
she  declined,  and  it  was  determined  she  should  continue  with  her 
daughter.  Her  last  moments  may,  perhaps,  be  soothed  by  closing  in 
the  presence  of  her  child ; but  till  then,  I think  her  wretchedness 
must  be  aggravated  by  beholding  that  of  the  marquis  and  his  wife ; 
theirs  is  that  situation,  where  comfort  can  neither  b('.  offered  nor 
suggested,  hopeless  and  incurable  is  their  sorrow:  for  to  use  the 
beautiful  and  emphatic  words  of  a late  celebrated  writer,  ‘ The  gates 
of  death  are  shut  upon  their  prospects.’  ” 

Amanda  now,  after  a little  hesitation,  proceeded  to  inform  Oscar 
of  her  real  situation,  and  entreated  him  to  believe,  that  she  never 
would  have  had  a concealment  from  him,  but  for  the  fear  of  giving 
him  uneasiness.  He  folded  her  to  his  bosom,  as  she  ceased  speaking, 
declaring  he  rejoiced  and  congratulated  her  on  having  found  an  object 
so  well  qualified  to  make  her  happy. 

‘‘But  where  is  this  dear  creature?”  cried  Oscar  with  some  gaiety, 
“ Am  I to  search  for  him  like  a favourite  Sylph  in  your  bouquet,  or 
with  more  probability  of  success,  seek  him  amongst  the  shades  of 
the  garden?” 

“Come,”  said  he,  “your  looks  confess  our  search  will  not  be 
troublesome.”  He  led  her  to  the  garden.  Lord  Mortimer,  who  had 
lingered  near  it,  saw  them  approaching.  Amanda  motioned  to  him 
to  meet  them.  He  sprang  forward,  and  was  irstantly  introduced  by 
her  to  Lord  Dunreath.  The  reception  he  met  from  him  was  erhaps 
one  of  the  most  flattering  proofs  he  could  receive  of  his  Amanda's 
affections ; for  what  but  the  most  animated  expressions  in  his  favour 
could  have  made  Lord  Dunreath,  at  the  first  introduction,  address 
him  with  all  the  fervency  of  friendship?  Extremes  of  joy  and  sor* 
row  are  difficult  to  describe!  I shall,  therefore,  as  perfectl)  con- 


608 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Bcious  of  mj  inability  to  do  justice  to  the  scene  wliich  followed  tliia 
introduction,  pass  it  over  in  silence.  Lord  Dunreath  bad  ordered  bis 
equipage  and  attendants  to  the  village  inn,  where  he  himself  intended 
to  lodge : but  this  was  prevented  by  Lord  Chertury,  who  informed 
him  he  could  be  accommodated  at  his  steward’s : it  was  here,  when 
they  had  retired  for  the  night,  tliat  Lord  Cherbury,  having  intimated 
his  wishes  for  an  immediate  union  with  Amanda,  all  necessary 
preliminaries  were  talked  over  and  adjusted,  and  it  was  agreed  the 
marriage  should  take  place  at  the  cottage,  from  whence  they  should 
immediately  proceed  to  Lady  Martha’s,  and  that  to  procure  a licence 
they  should  both  depart  the  next  morning ; at  breakfast,  therefore, 
Amanda  was  apprised  of  their  plan,  and  though  the  glow  of  modesty 
overspread  her  face,  she  did  not  with  affectation  object  to  it. 

With  greater  expedition  than  Amanda  expected,  the  travellers 
returned  from  the  journey  they  had  been  obliged  to  take,  and  at  their 
earnest  and  united  request,  without  any  affectation  of  modesty,  though 
with  its  real  feelings,  Amanda  consented  that  the  marriage  should 
take  place  the  day  but  one  after  their  return. 

Howell  was  sent  for,  and  informed  of  the  hour  his  services  would 
be  required.  His  mild  eyes  evinced  to  Amanda  his  sincere  joy  at  the 
termination  of  her  sorrows. 

On  the  destined  morning.  Lord  Dunreath  and  his  friend  went  over 
to  the  cottage,  and  in  a few  minutes  were  joined  by  their  Amanda, 
the  perfect  model  of  innocence  and  beauty ; she  looked  indeed  the 
child  of  sweet  simplicity,  arrayed  with  the  unstudied  elegance  of  a 
village  maid ; she  had  no  ornaments  but  those  which  could  never 
decay,  namely,  modesty  and  meekness. 

Language  was  inadequate  to  express  the  feelings  of  Lord  Cherbury ; 
his  fine  eyes  alone  could  do  them  justice,  alone  reveal  what  might  be 
termed  tire  sacred  triumph  of  his  soul,  at  gaining  such  a woman.  A 
soft  shade  of  melancholy  stole  over  the  fine. features  of  Lord  Dunreath, 
as  he  witnessed  the  happiness  of  Lord  Cherbury : for  as  his  happi- 
ness, so  might  his  own  have  been,  but  for  the  blackest  perfidy. 

As  Lord  Cherbury  took  the  trembling  hand  of  Amanda  to  lead  her 
from  the  cottage,  she  gave  a farewell  sigh  to  a place  where  it  might 
be  said  her  happiness  had  commenced  and  was  completed. 

They  walked  to  the  church,  followed  by  the  nurse  and  her  family. 
Some  kind  hand  had  strewed  Lady  Malvina’s  grave  with  the  gayest 


Cnil^DREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


609 


Sowers,  and  when  Amanda  reached  it,  she  paused  involuntarily  for  a 
moment,  to  invoke  the  spirits  of  her  parents  to  bless  her  union. 

Howell  was  already  in  the  church  waiting  to  receive  them,  and  the 
ceremony  was  begun  without  delay.  With  the  truest  pleasure  did 
Lord  Dunreath  give  his  lovely  sister  to  Lord  Cherhury ; and  with 
the  liveliest  transport  did  he  receive  her  as  the  choicest  gift  Heaven 
could  bestow. 

Tears  of  sweet  sensibility  fell  from  Amanda  as  Lord  Cherhury 
folded  her  to  his  bosom  as  his  own  Amanda.  Hor  was  he  less 
affected  ; joy  of  the  most  rapturous  kind  agitated  his  whole  soul  at 
the  completion  of  an  event  so  earnestly  desired,  hut  so  long  despaired 
of.  He  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  when  she  had  received  the  con- 
gratulations of  her  brother,  presented  her  to  the  rest  of  the  little 
group.  Their  delight,  particularly  the  nurse’s,  was  almost  too  great 
for  expression. 

“Well,”  she  said,  sobbing,  “thank  Cot  her  wush  was  fulfilled:  it 
had  peen  her  prayer,  night,  noon  and  morn,  to  see  the  daughter  of 
her  tear,  tear  Captain  Fitzalan  greatly  married.” 

Poor  Ellen  wept  as  well : “ Now  she  should  he  happy,”  she  said, 
“ since  she  knew  her  tear  young  lady  was  so.” 

Amanda,  affected  by  the  artless  testimonies  of  affection  she  re- 
ceived, could  only  smile  upon  the  faithful  creatures. 

Lord  Cherhury,  seeing  her  inability  to  speak,  took  her  hand  and 
said,  “Lady  Cherhury  never  will  forget  the  obligations  conferred 
upon  Miss  Fitzalan.” 

Bridal  favours  and  presents  had  already  been  distributed  among 
the  Edwins.  Howell  was  handsomely  complimented  on  the  occasion, 
and  received  some  valuable  presents  from  Lord  Cherhury,  as  proofs 
of  his  sincere  friendship,  also  money  to  distribute  among  the  indigent 
villagers. 

His  lordship  then  handed  Amanda  into  his  coach,  already  prepared 
for  its  journey  to  Thornbury,  and  the  little  bridal  party  were  followed 
w'.th  the  most  ardent  blessings. 

After  proceeding  a quarter  of  a mile  they  reached  Tudor  Hall. 

“ I wish  my  lord,”  cried  Oscar,  as  they  were  driving  round  the 
wood,  “ you  would  permit  me  to  stop  and  view  the  Hall,  and  also 
accompany  me  to  it.” 

“ Lord  Cherhury  looked  a little  embarrassed : he  felt  a strong 
26* 


610 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


reluctance  to  visit  it,  when  no  longer  his,  yet  he  could  not  think  of 
refusing  the  earl. 

Amanda  knew  his  feelings,  and  wished  her  brother  nad  not  made 
the  request.  No  opposition,  however,  being  shown  to  it,  they  stopped 
at  the  great  gate,  which  opened  into  the  avenue,  and  alighted. 
This  was  a long  beautiful  walk  cut  through  the  wood,  and  in  a direct 
line  with  the  house.  On  either  side  were  little  grassy  banks,  now 
covered  with  a profusion  of  gay  flowers,  and  a thick  row  of  trees 
which  waving  their  old  fantastic  branches  on  high,  formed  a most 
delightful  shade.  Honey-suckles  twined  around  many  of  the  trunks, 
forming  in  some  places  luxuriant  canopies,  and  with  a variety  of 
aromatic  shrubs  quite  perfumed  the  air. 

It  was  yet  an  early  hour ; the  dew,  therefore,  still  sparkled  upon  the 
grass,  and  everything  looked  in  the  highest  verdure.  Through  vistas 
in  the  wood,  a fine,  clear  river  was  seen,  along  whose  sides  beautiful 
green  slopes  were  stretched,  scattered  over  with  flocks,  that  spread 
their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sun.  The  birds  sung  sweetly  in  the 
embowering  recesses  of  the  wood,  and  so  calm,  so  lovely  did  the  place 
appear,  that  Lord  Cherbury  could  not  refrain  a sigh  for  its  loss. 

“How  deligMed,”  cried  he,  casting  his  fine  eyes  around,  “should  1 
have  been  still  to  have  cherished  those  old  trees,  beneath  whose  shades 
some  of  my  happiest  hours  were  passed.” 

They  entered  the  hall,  whose  folding-door  they  found  open;  it  was 
large  and  gothic;  a row  of  arched  windows  was  on  either  side,  whoso 
recesses  were  filled  with  myrtles,  roses,  and  geraniums,  which  emitted 
a delicious  perfume,  and  contrasted  with  the  white  walls,  gave  an 
appearance  of  the  greatest  gaiety  to  the  place. 

Oscar  led  the  way  to  a spacious  parlour  at  the  end  of  the  hall ; but 
how  impossible  to  describe  the  surprise  and  pleasure  of  Lord  and  Lady 
Cherbury,  on  entering  it,  at  beholding  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta 
Dormer. 

Lord  Cherbury  stood  transfixed  like  a statue ; the  caresses  of  his 
aunt  and  his  sister,  which  were  shared  between  him  and  his  bride, 
restored  him  to  animation;  but  while  they  returned  them,  he  cast  his 
eye  upon  Oscar,  and  demanded  an  explanation  of  the  scene. 

“I  shall  give  no  explanation,  my  lord,”  eried  Oscar,  “ till  you  welcome 
youi  friends  to  your  house.” 

“My  house?”  repeated  Lord  Cherbury,  staring  at  him. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


CU 


LoiJ  Dunreath  approacbed;  never  had  he  appeared  so  engaging; 
the  benignant  expression  his  countenance  assr.med  was  such  as  we  may 
suppose  an  angel  sent  from  Heaven,  on  benevolent  purj)oses  to  man, 
would  wear. 

‘‘Excuse  me,  my  dear  Oherbury,”  said  he,  “for  suffering  you  to  feel 
any  uneasiness  which  I could  remove,  I only  did  so  from  an  idea  of 
increasing  your  pleasure  hereafter.  In  Scotland,  I was  informed  of 
your  predilection  for  my  sister,  by  Lady  Greystock,  who,  I fancy,  you 
have  both  some  reason  to  remember,  in  consequence  of  which,  on 
seeing  Tudor  Hall  advertised,  I begged  Sir  Charles  Bingley  to  purchase 
it  for  me  in  his  own  name,  from  a presentiment  I had  that  the  event 
I now  rejoice  at,  would  take  place,  and  from  my  wish  of  having  a 
nuptial  present  for  my  sister,  worthy  her  acceptance : let  me,”  continued 
he,  taking  a hand  of  each,  and  joining  them  together,  “let  me,  in  this 
respected  mansion,  and  in  the  dear  presence  of  those  you  love,  again  wish 
you  a continuance  of  every  blessing.  May  this  seat,  as  heretofore,  bo 
the  scene  of  domestic  happiness ; may  it  ever  be  a pleasing  abode  to 
the  prosperous,  and  an  asylum  of  comfort  to  the  afflicted.” 

Lord  Cherbury’s  heart  was  too  full  for  words ; he  turned  aside  to 
wipe  away  his  starting  tears.  At  last,  though  in  a broken  voice,  ho 
said,  “ I cannot  speak  my  feelings.” 

“Pain  me  not,”  cried  Oscar,  “by  attempting  to  do  so.  From  this 
moment  forget  that  Tudor  Hall  was  ever  out  of  your  possession,  or  if 
you  must  remember  it,  think  it  restored  to  you  with  an  incumbranco 
which  half  the  fashionable  men  in  England  would  give  an  estate  to  get 
rid  of,  and  this  will  conquer  your  too  refined  feelings.” 

Loid  Oherbury  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  lovely  incumbrance  which 
Oscar  alluded  to. 

“And  what  shall  I say  to  my  brother?”  cried  Amanda,  throwing 
herself  into  his  arms. 

“ Why,  that  you  will  compose  your  spirits,  and  endeavour  to  give  a 
proper  welcome  io  your  friends.” — He  presented  her  to  Lady  Martha 
and  Lady  Araminta,'who  again  embraced  and  congratulated  her.  He 
then  led  her  to  the  head  of  the  breakfast  table,  which  was  elegantly 
laid  out.  The  timid  bride  was  assisted  in  doing  the  honours  by  her 
brother  and  Lord  Oherbury.  Lady  Martha  beheld  the  youthful  pair 
with  the  truest  delight ; never  before  had  she  seen  two,  from  equal  merit 
and  loveliness,  so  justly  formed  to  make  each  other  happy;  never  had 


C12 


CIIILl.  REN  OF  THE  ABBET 


she  seen  either  to  such  advantage ; the  heantilul  coloring  of  health  anc 
modesty  tinged  the  soft  cheeks  of  Amanda,  and  her  eyes,  through  their 
long  lashes,  emitted  mild  beams  of  pleasure ; its  brightest  glow  mantled 
the  cheeks  of  Lord  Oherhury,  and  his  eyes  were  again  illuminated  with 
all  their  wonted  radiancy. 

Oscar  was  requested  to  tell  particularly  how  he  had  arranged  his 
plan,  which  he  accordingly  did.  He  had  written  to  the  ladies  at 
Thomhury,  informing  them  of  his  scheme,  and  requesting  their  presence, 
and  on  the  preceding  night  they  had  arrived  at  the  hall.  Lord  Dunreath 
also  added,  that  from  a certainty  of  its  being  agreeable  to  Lord  Oherhury, 
he  had  directed  the  steward  to  reinstate  the  old  servants  in  their  former 
stations,  and  also  to  invite  the  tenants  to  a nuptial  feast. 

Lord  Oherhury  assured  him  he  had  done  what  was  truly  grateful  to 
his  feelings ; a ramble  about  the  garden  and  shrubberies  was  proposed, 
and  agreed  to  after  breakfast.  In  the  hall  and  avenue  the  servants  and 
tenants  were  already  assembled.  Lord  Oherhury  went  among  them 
all,  and  the  grateful  joy  they  expressed  at  having  him  again  for  a master 
and  landlord,  deeply  affected  his  feelings.  He  thanked  them  for  their 
regard,  and  received  their  congratulations  on  his  present  happiness  with 
that  sweetness  and  affability  which  always  distinguished  his  manners 
The  ramble  was  delightful.  When  the  sun  had  attained  its  meridian, 
they  sought  the  cool  shade,  and  retired  to  little  romantic  arbours,  o’er 
canopied  with  woodbines,  where,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  enchantment, 
they  found  refreshments  laid  out : they  did  not  return  to  the  house  till 
they  received  a summons  to  dinner,  and  had  then  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
the  tenants  seated  at  long  tables  in  the  wood,  enjoying  with  unbounded 
mirth  the  profusion  with  which  they  were  covered ; and  Lord  Oherhury 
begged  Amanda  to  observe  her  nurse  seated  at  the  head  of  one  of  these 
tables,  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  self-importance.  The  pride  and  vanity 
of  this  good  woman  (and  she  always  possessed  a large  share  of  both)  had 
been  considerably  increased  from  the  time  her  cottage  was  honoured 
wnth  such  noble  guests.  When  she  received  an  invitation  from  the 
steward  to  accompany  the  rest  of  the  tenants  to  the  hall,  to  celebrate  its 
restoration  to  Lord  Oherhury,  her  joy  and  exultation  knew  no  hounds; 
she  took  care  to  walk  with  the  wives  of  some  of  the  most  respectable  ten- 
ants, describing  to  them  all  tliat  had  passed  at  the  ceremony,  and  how  the 
earl  had  first  fallen  in  love  with  his  bride  at  her  cottage,  and  what  trials 
tlioy  had  undergone,  no  doubt  to  prove  their  constancy.  “Got  ploss 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


613 


tlieir  hearts,”  she  said  to  her  eager  auditors,  “she  could  tell  them  of 
such  tangers  and  tifficulties,  and  tribulations,  as  would  surprise  the  very 
souls  in  their  podies.  Well,  well,  it  was  novf  her  tear  chilt’s  turn  to 
hold  up  her  head  with  the  highest  in  the  land;  and,  to  be  sure,  she 
might  now  say,  without  telling  a lie,  that  her  tear  latyship  would  now 
make  some  poty  of  herself,  and  please  Cot,  she  hoped  and  pelieved,  she 
should  not  tisgrace  or  tisparage  a petter  situation.”  When  she  came 
near  the  countess,  she  took  care  to  press  forward  for  a gracious  look ; 
but  this  was  not  all,  she  had  always  envied  the  consequence  of  Mrs. 
Abergwilly,  in  having  so  great  a house  as  the  hall  entirely  under  her 
management;  and  she  now  determined,  upon  the  strength  of  her  favour 
with  Lady  Cherbury,  to  have  something  to  say  to  it,  and  of  course 
increase  her  consequence  among  her  neighbours.  There  was  nothing 
on  earth  she  so  much  delighted  in  as  a bustle,  and  the  present  scend 
was  quite  adapted  to  her  taste,  for  all  within  and  without  the  house 
was  joyous  confusion.  The  first  specimen  she  gave  of  her  intention 
was,  in  helping  to  distribute  the  refreshments  amongst  the  tenants ; she 
then  proceeded  to  the  dinner  parlour,  to  give  her  opinion  and  assistance, 
and  directions  about  laying  out  the  table.  Mrs.  Abergwilly,  like  the 
'generality  of  those  accustomed  to  absolute  power,  could  not  tamely 
submit  to  any  innovation  on  it.  She  curbed  her  resentment,  howeveiv 
and  civilly  told  Mrs.  Edwin  she  wanted  no  assistance;  “thank  Cot,” 
she  said,  “she  was  not  come  to  this  time  of  tay  without  being  able  to 
give  proper  tirections  about  laying  out  a table.” 

Mrs.  Edwin  said,  “ To  be  sure  Mrs.  Abergwilly  might  have  a very 
pretty  taste,  but  then  another  person  might  have  as  good  a one.” 

The  day  was  intensely  hot ; she  pinned  back  her  gown,  which  was 
a rich  silk,  that  had  belonged  to  Lady  Malvina,  and  without  farther 
ceremony  began  altering  the  dishes,  and  saying,  “ she  knew  the  taste 
of  her  tear  laty,  the  countess,  petter  than  any  one  else,  and  that  she 
would  take  an  early  opportunity  of  going  through  the  apartments, 
and  telling  Mrs.  AbergVv^illy  how  to  arrange  the  furniture,” 

The  Welch  blood  of  the  housekeeper  could  bear  no  more,  and  she 
began  abusing  Mrs.  Edwin,  though  in  terms  scarcely  articulate ; to 
which  she  replied  with  interest. 

In  the  midst  of  this  fracas  old  Edwin  entered.  “For  the  love  of 
Cot,”  he  asked,  “ and  the  mercy  of  heaven,  could  they  choose  no  other 
time  or  day  than  the  present  to  pegin  and  fight  and  scold,  and  abusp 


t>14  CHILDHEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

each  other  like  a couple  of  Welch  witches!  What  woulJ  the  nohla 
earl  and  the  countess  say — Oh  Lort  I oh  Lort ! he  felt  himself  blushing 
all  over  for  the  misdemeanor.” 

His  remonstrance  had  an  immediate  effect ; they  were  both 
ashamed  of  their  conduct ; their  rage  .abated,  they  became  friends, 
and  Mrs.  Edwin  resigned  the  direction  of  the  dinner  table  to  Mrs. 
Abergwilly,  satisfied  with  being  allowed  to  pre&ide  among  the  tenants. 

The  bridal  party  found  Howell  in  the  dining  parlour,  and  his  com- 
pany increased  their  pleasure.  After  dinner  the  rustics  commenced 
their  dancing  in  the  avenue  to  the  strains  of  the  harp,  and  afforded  a 
delightful  scene  of  innocent  gaiety  to  their  benevolent  entertainers, 
who  smiled  to  see 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  side-long  looks  of  love, 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 

After  tea  the  party  went  out  amongst  them,  and  the  gentlemen  for 
a short  time  mingled  in  the  dance.  Long  it  could  not  detain  Lord 
Cherbury  from  his  Amanda.  Oh ! with  what  ecstasy  did  he  listen  to 
the  soft  accents  of  her  voice  whilst  his  fond  heart  assured  him  she 
was  now  his ; the  remembrance  of  his  past  difficulties  but  increased 
his  felicity. 

In  the  course  of  the  week  all  the  neighbouring  families  came  to 
pay  their  congratulations  at  Tudor  Hall ; invitations  were  given  and 
received,  and  it  again  became  the  seat  of  pleasure  and  hospitality; 
but  Amanda  did  not  suffer  the  possession  of  happiness  to  obliterate 
one  grateful  remembrance  from  her  mind ; she  was  not  one  of  those 
selfish  beings,  who,  on  being  what  is  termed  settled  for  life,  immedia- 
tely contract  themselves  within  the  narrow  sphere  of  their  own 
enjoyments ; still  was  her  heart  as  sensible  as  ever  of  the  glow  of 
friendship  and  compassion  ; she  wrote  to  all  the  friends  she  had  ever 
received  kindness  from,  in  terms  of  the  warmest  gratitude,  and  her 
letters  were  accompanied  by  presents  sufficiently  valuable  to  prove 
lier  sincerity.  She  sent  an  invitation  to  Emily  Kushbrook,  which 
was  immediately  accepted ; and  now  a discovery  took  place  which 
infinitely  surprised  and  pleased  Amanda — namely,  that  Howell  was 
the  young  clergyman  Emily  was  attached  to.  He  had  gone  to  London 
cm  a visit  to  the  gentleman  who  had  patronized  him  ; her  youtlj,  her 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.  615 

Biraplicity  abuve  all  her  distress  affected  his  heart,  and  in  the  hope 
of  mitigating  that  distress  (which  he  was  shocked  to  see  had  been 
aggravated  by  the  ladies  she  came  to)  he  had  followed  her ; to  soothe 
the  wretched,  to  relieve  the  distressed,  was  not  considered  more  a 
duty  than  a pleasure  by  Howell ; and  the  little  favours  he  conferred 
upon  the  Kushbrooks  afforded,  if  possible,  more  pleasure  to  him  than 
they  did  to  them ; so  sweet  are  the  feelings  of  benevolence  and  virtue. 
— -But  compassion  was  not  long  the  sole  motive  of  his  interest  in  their 
affairs  ; the  amiable  manners,  the  gentle  conversation  of  Emily  com^ 
pletely  subdued  his  unfortunate  passion  for  Amanda,  and  in  stealing 
her  image  from  his  heart,  she  implanted  her  own  in  its  place. — He 
described  in  a romantic  manner  th<.>  little  rural  cottage  he  invited  her 
to  share — he  anticipated  the  happy  period  when  it  should  become  an 
asylum  to  her  parents — when  he,  like  a second  father,  should  assist 
their  clrildren  through  the  devious  paths  of  life ; these  fond  hopes  and 
expectations  vanished  the  moment  he  received  Mrs.  Connel’s  letter. 
He  could  not  think  of  sacrificing  the  interest  of  Bushbrook  to  the 
consideration  of  his  own  happiness,  and  therefore  generously,  but 
with  the  most  agonizing  confiicts,  resigned  his  Emily  to  a more 
prosperous  rival;  his  joy  at  finding  her  disengaged,  still  his  own 
unaltered  Emily,  can  better  be  conceived  than  described.  He  pointed 
out  the  little  sheltered  cottage  which  again  he  hoped  she  would  share, 
and  blest  with  her  the  hand  that  had  opened  her  father’s  prison 
gates.  Lord  and  Lady  Cherbury  were  delighted  to  think  they  could 
contribute  to  the  felicity  of  such  amiable  beings ; and  the  latter  wrote 
to  Captain  and  Mrs.  Kushbrook  on  the  subject,  who  immediately 
replied  to  her  letter,  declaring  that  their  fondest  wish  would  be 
gratified  in  bestowing  their.daughter  on  Howell.  They  were  accord- 
ingly invited  to  the  Hall ; and  in  the  same  spot  where  a month  before 
he  ratified  the  vows  of  Lord  Cherbury  and  Amanda,  did  Howell 
plight  his  own  to  Emily,  who  from  the  hand  of  Lady  Cherbury 
received  a nuptial  present  sufficient  to  procure  every  enjoyment  her 
humble  and  unassuming  spirit  aspired  to.  Her  parents,  after  passing 
a few  days  in  her  cottage,  departed,  rejoicing  at  the  happiness  of 
their  beloved  child,  and  truly  grateful  to  those  who  had  contributed 
to  it. 

And  now  did  the  grateful  children  of  Fitzalan  amply  reward  the 
Edwins  for  their  past  kindness  to  their  parents  and  themselves;  an 


616 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


annual  stipend  was  settled  on  Edwin  by  Lord  Dunreath,  and  tlio  po&  * 
sessions  of  Ellen  were  enlarged  by  Amanda.  Now  was  realized  every 
scheme  of  domestic  happiness  she  had  ever  formed ; but  even  that 
happiness  could  not  alleviate  her  feelings  on  Oscar’s  account,  whose 
faded  cheek,  whose  languid  eye,  whose  total  abstraction  in  the  midst 
of  company  evidently  proved  the  state  of  his  heart ; and  the  teai  of 
regret  which  had  so  often  fallen  for  her  own  sorrows,  was  now  shed 
for  his ; he  had  written  to  Mrs.  Marlowe  a particular  account  of  every 
thing  which  had  befallen  him  since  their  separation : she  answered 
his  letter  immediately,  and  after  congratulating  him  in  the  warmest 
terms  on  the  change  in  his  situation,  informed  him  that  Adela  was 
then  at  one  of  Belgrave’s  seats  in  England,  and  that  he  was  gone  to 
the  continent ; her  style  was  melancholy,  and  she  concluded  her 
letter  in  these  words:  “no  longer,  my  dear  Oscar,  is  my  fire-side 
enlivened  by  gaiety  or  friendship ; sad  and  solitary  I sit  within  my 
cottage  till  my  heart  sickens  at  the  remembrance  of  past  scenes,  and 
if  I wander  from  it,  the  objects  without,  if  possible,  add  to  the  bitter- 
ness of  that  remembrance.  The  closed  windows,  the  grass-grown 
paths,  the  dejected  servants  of  "Woodlawn,  all  recall  to  my  mind  those 
hours  when  it  was  the  mansion  of  hospitality  and  pleasure.  I often 
linger  by  the  grave  of  the  general,  my  tears  fall  upon  it,  an'd  I think 
of  that  period  when,  like  him,  I shall  drop  into  it ; but  my  last  hours 
will  not  close  like  his,  no  tender  child  wiU  bend  over  my  piUow  to 
catch  my  last  sigh,  to  soothe  my  last  pang ; in  vain  my  closing  eyes 
will  look  for  the  pious  drops  of  nature  or  friendship.  Unfriended 
I shall  die,  with  the  sad  consciousness  of  doing  so  through  my  own 
means ; but  I shall  not  be  quite  unmourned ; you  and  my  Adela,  th« 
sweet  daughter  of  my  care,  wiU  regret  the  being  whose  affection 
whose  sympathy  for  you  both,  can  only  be  obliterated  with  life.^^ 


fMI  I L I)  R E N OF  THE  ABBEY. 


CHAPTER  LYIII. 

The  modest  yirtues  mingled  in  her  eyes, 

Still  on  the  ground  dejected,  darting  all 
Their  humid  beams  into  the  opening  flowers 

Or  when  she  thought 

Of  what  her  faithless  fortune  promised  once  I 
They,  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  evening,  shone  in  tears. 

Thomson. 


Adela,  on  the  death  of  her  father,  was  taken  by  Belgrave  to 
England,  though  the  only  pleasure  he  experienced  in  removing  her 
was  derived  from  the  idea  of  wounding  her  feelings,  by  separating  her 
from  Mrs.  Marlowe,  whom  he  knew  she  was  tenderly  attached  to. 
From  his  connections  in  London  she  was  compelled  to  mix  in  society ; 
compelled  I say,  for  the  natural  gaiety  of  her  soul  was  quite  gone,  and 
that  solitude  which  permitted  her  to  brood  over  the  remembrance  of 
past  days,  was  the  only  happiness  she  was  capable  of  enjoying. 
"When  the  terrors  of  Belgrave  drove  him  from  the  kingdom,  he  had 
her  removed  to  Woodhouse,  to  which  it  may  be  remembered  he  had 
once  brought  Amanda,  and  from  which  the  imperious  woman  who 
then  ruled  it  was  removed ; but  the  principal  domestic  was  equally 
harsh  and  insolent  in  her  manner,  and  to  her  care  the  unfortunate 
Adela  was  consigned,  with  strict  orders  that  she  should  not  bo 
allowed  to  receive  any  company,  or  correspond  with  any  being. 
Accustomed  from  her  earliest  youth  to  the  greatest  tenderness,  this 
severity  plunged  her  into  the  deepest  despondency,  and  life  was  a 
burthen  she  would  gladly  have  resigned ; her  melancholy,  or  rather 
pathetic  sweetness,  at  last  softened  the  flinty  nature  of  her  governante, 
and  she  was  permitted  to  extend  her  walks  beyond  the  garden,  to 
which  they  had  hitherto  been  confined ; but  she  availed  herself  of 
this  permission  only  to  visit  the  church-yard  belonging  to  the  hamlet, 
whose  old  yew  trees  she  had  often  seen  waving  from  the  windows. 
Beneath  thejr  solemn  gloom  she  loved  to  sit,  while  evening  closed 
around  her ; and  in  a spot,  sequestered  from  every  human  eye.^  wcej 


618 


CillLDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY, 


over  tlie  recollection  of  that  father  she  had  lost,  that  friend  she 
separated  from. 

She  remained  in  the  church-yard  one  night  beyond  her  usual  hour.. 
The  soft  beams  of  the  moon  alone  prevented  her  from  being  involved 
in  darkness,  and  the  plaintive  breathing  of  a flute  from  the  neigh- 
bouring hamlet  first  stole  upon  her  ear.  Lost  in  sadness,  her  head 
resting  upon  her  hand,  she  forgot  the  progress  of  time ; when  sua- 
cienly  she  beheld  a form  rising  from  a neighbouring  grave.  She 
started  up,  screamed,  but  had  no  power  to  move ; the  form  advanced 
to  her ; it  was  the  figure  of  a venerable  man,  who  gently  exclaimed, 
‘‘Be  not  afraid !”  Ilis  voice  dissipated  the  involuntary  fears  of  Adela; 
but  still  she  trembled  so  much  she  could  not  move.  “ I thought,” 
cried  he,  gazing  on  her,  “ this  place  had  been  alone  the  haunt  of 
wretchedness  and  me.”  “ If  sacred  to  sorrow,”  exclaimed  Adela,  “ I 
well  may  claim  the  privilege  of  entering  it.”  She  spoke  involuntarily, 
and  her  words  seemed  to  affect  the  stranger  deeply.  “ So  young,” 
said  he,  “ ’tis  melancholy  indeed ; but  still  the  sorrows  of  youth  are 
more  bearable  than  those  of  age;  because,  like  age,  it  has  not  out- 
lived the  fond  ties,  the  sweet  connections  of  life” — “Alas!”  cried 
Adela,  unable  to  repress  her  feelings,  “I  am  separated  from  all  I 
regarded.”  The  stranger  leaned  pensively  against  a tree  for  a few 
minutes,  and  then  again  addressed  her ; “ ’Tis  a late  hour,”  said  he : . 
“ suffer  me  to  conduct  you  home,  and  also  permit  me  to  ask  if  I may 
see  you  here  to-morrow  night.  Your  youth,  your  manner,  your 
dejection,  all  interest  me  deeply : the  sorrows  of  youth  are  often 
increased  by  imagination.  You  will  say  nothing  can  exceed  its  pains ; 
’tis  true,  but  it  is  a weakness  to  yield  to  them — a weakness  which 
from  a sensible  mind  will  be  eradicated  the  moment  it  hears  of  the 
real  calamities  of  life ; such  a relation  I can  give  you,  if  you  meet  me 
to-morrow  night  in  this  sad,  this  solitary  spot ; a spot  I have  visited 
every  closing  evening,  without  ever  before  meeting  a being  in  it. 

Ilis  venerable  looks,  his  gentle,  pathetic  manner,  affected  Adela 
inexpressibly ; she  gazed  on  him  with  emotion  somewhat  similar  to 
those  with  Avhich  slue  used  to  contemplate  the  mild  features  of  her 
father.  “I  will  meet  you,”  cried  she,  “but  my  sorrows  are  not 
i.maginary.”  She  refused  to  let  him  attend  her  home : and  in  this 
incident  there  was  something  affecting  and  romantic,  which  soothed 
and  engrossed  the  mind. 


CHIIDREN  OF  THE  ABBEF. 


619 


She  was  j)iinctiial  the  next  evening  to  the  appointed  hour.  The 
stranger  was  already  in  the  church-yard ; he  seated  her  at  the  head  of 
the  grave  from  which  she  had  seen  him  rise  the  preceding  night,  and 
which  was  only  distinguished  from  the  others  by  a few  flowering 
shrubs  planted  around  it,  and  began  his  promised  narrative.  He  had 
not  proceeded  far  ere  Adela  began  to  tremble  with  emotion — as  it 
continued,  it  increased. — 

At  last  suddenly  catching  his  hand,  with  wildness  she  exclaimed 
— ‘‘  She  lives,  the  wife  so  bitterly  lamented  still  lives,  a solitary 
mourner  for  your  sake.  Oh  never!  never  did  she  injure  you  as  you 
suppose.  Oh  dear  inestimable  Mrs.  Marlowe,  what  happiness 
to  the  child  of  your  care,  to  think  that  through  her  means  you 
will  regain  the  hearing  you  have  so  tenderly  regretted;  regain 
him  with  a heart  open  to  receive  you.”  The  deep  convulsive  sobs 
of  her  companion  now  pierced  her  ear ; for  many  minutes  he  was 
unable  to  speak : at  last,  raising  his  eyes,  “ Oh  Providence ! I thank 
thee,”  he  exclaimed ; “ again  shall  my  arms  fold  to  my  heart  its  best 
beloved  object.  Oh,  my  Fanny,  how  have  I injured  thee!  Learn 
from  me,”  he  continued,  turning  to  Adela,  “ Oh  learn  from  me  never 
to  yield  to  rashness ; had  I allowed  myself  time  to  inquire  into  the 
particulars  of  my  wife’s  conduct ; had  I resisted,  instead  of  obeying 
the  violence  of  passion,  what  years  of  lingering  misery  should  I have 
saved  us  both.  But  tell  me  where  I shall  And  my  solitary  mourner 
as  you  call  her.”  Adela  gave  him  the  desired  information  and  also  told 
him  her  own  situation.  “ The  wife  of  Belgrave !”  he  repeated  “ then 
I wonder  not,”  continued  he,  as  if  involuntarily,  “at  your  sorrows.” 
It  was  indeed  to  Howell,  the  unfortunate  father  of  Juliana,  the 
regretted  husband  of  Mrs.  Marlowe,  that  Adela  had  been  addressing 
herself.  He  checked  himself,  however,  and  told  her,  that  the  being  by 
whose  grave  they  sat,  had  been  hurried  through  the  villany  of  Belgrave, 
to  that  grave.  Adela  told  him  of  the  prohibition  against  her  writing : 
but  at  the  same  time  assured  him,  ere  the  following  night  she  would 
find  an  opportunity  of  writing  a letter,  which  he  should  bring  to  Mrs» 
Marlowe,  who,  by  its  contents,  would  be  prepared  for  his  appearance, 
as  it  was  to  be  sent  in  to  her.  But  Adela  was  prevented  from  putting 
her  intention  into  execution  by  an  event  as  solemn  as  unexpected. 

The  ensuing  morning  she  was  disturbed  from  sleep  by  a violent 
Qmse  in  the  house,  as  if  people  running  backwards  and  forwards  in 


C20 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


confusion  and  distress.  Slie  was  hurrying  on  her  clothes  to  go  and 
inquire  into  tlie  cause  of  it,  when  a servant  rushed  into  the  room,  and 
in  a hasty  manner  told  her  that  Colonel  Belgrave  was  dead.  Struck 
with  horror  and  amazement,  Adela  stood  petrified,  gazing  on  her; 
the  maid  repeated  her  words,  and  added  that  he  had  died  abroad, 
and  his  remains  were  brought  over  to  Woodhouse  for  interment, 
attended  by  a French  gentleman,  who  looked  ^^ke  a priest.  The 
various  emotions  which  assailed  the  heart  of  Adela  at  this  moment 
were  too  much  for  her  weak  frame,  and  she  would  have  fallen  to  the 
floor  but  for  the  maid;  it  was  some  time  ere  she  recovered  her  insen- 
sibility, and  when  she  did  regain  it  she  was  still  so  agitated  as  to  be 
unable  to  give  those  directions,  which  the  domestics,  now  looking  up 
to  her  in  a very  different  light  from  what  they  had  hitherto  dune, 
demanded  from  her.  All  she  could  desire  was,  that  the  steward 
should  pay  every  respect  and  attention  to  the  gentleman  who  attended 
the  remains  of  his  master,  and  have  every  honour  that  was  due  to 
those  remains.  To  suppose  that  she  regretted  Belgrave  would  be 
unnatural ; but  she  felt  horror,  mingled  with  a degree  of  pity,  for  his 
untimely  fate,  at  the  idea  of  his  dying  abroad,  without  one  connexioiv, 
( ne  friend  near  him. 

His  last  moments  were  indeed  more  wretched  than  she  could  con- 
ceive. Overwhelmed  with  terror  and  grief  he  had  quitted  England : 
terror,  at  the  supposition  of  a crime  which  in  reality  he  had  not 
committed,  and  grief  for  the  fate  of  Amanda.  He  sought  to  lose  his 
horrors  in  inebriety,  but  this,  joined  to  the  agitation  of  the  mind, 
brought  on  a violent  fever,  by  the  time  he  had  landed  at  Calais,  in 
the  paroxysm  of  which,  had  the  attendants  understood  his  language, 
they  would  have  been  shocked  at  the  crimes  he  revealed.  His  senses 
were  restored  a short  time  before  he  died;  but  what  excruciating 
anguish,  as  well  as  horror  did  he  suffer,  from  their  restoration ; he 
knew  from  his  own  feelings  as  well  as  from  the  looks  of  his  attend- 
ants, that  his  last  moments  were  approaching ; and  the  recollection 
cf  past  actions  made  him  shudder  at  these  moments.  Oh,  Howell ; 
how  were  you  amply  revenged  for  all  the  pangs  he  made  you  suffer. 
How  did  the  pale  image  of  your  shrouded  Juliana  seem  to  stand 
beside  his  bed,  reproaching  his  barbarity.  Every  treacherous  action 
now  rose  to  view,  and  trembling,  he  groaned  with  terror  at  the 
spectres  wnicn  a guilty  conscience  raised  arourd  him.  Death  would 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


621 


Lave  been  a release,  could  be  have  considered  it  as  an  annihilation  of 
all  existence;  but  that  future  world  he  had  always  derided,  that 
world  was  opening  in  all  its  awful  horrors  to  his  view.  Already  he 
saw  himself  before  its  sacred  Judge.,  surrounded  by  the  accusing  spirits 
of  those  he  had  injured.  He  desired  a clergyman  to  be  brought  to 
him ; a priest  was  sent  for — their  faiths  were  different,  but  still,  as  a 
man  of  God,  Belgrave  applied  to  him  for  an  alleviation  of  his  tortures ; 
the  priest  was  superstitious,  and  ere  he  tried  to  comfort  he  wished  to 
convert;  but  scarcely  had  he  commenced  the  attempt,  ere  the 
wretched  being  before  him  clasped  his  hands  together  in  a strong 
convulsion,  and  expired.  The  English  servant  who  attended  Bel- 
grave,  informed  the  people  of  the  hotel  of  his  rank  and  fortune,  and  the 
priest  offered  to  accompany  his  remains  to  England.  lie  was,  by  the 
direction  of  Adela,  who  had  not  resolution  to  see  him,  amply 
rewarded  for  his  attention ; and  in  two  days  after  their  arrival  at 
"Woodhouse,  the  remains  of  Belgrave  were  consigned  to  their  kindred 
earth.  From  a sequestered  corner  of  the  church-yard,  Howell  wit- 
nessed his  interment;  when  all  had  departed,  he  approached  the 
grave  of  his  daughter. — “ He  is  gone !” — he  exclaimed,  “my  Juliana, 
your  betrayer  is  gone ; at  the  tribunal  of  liis  God  he  now  answers  for 
his  cruelty  to  you.  But  oh ! may  he  find  mercy  from  that  God ; may 
he  pardon  him  at  this  solemn  moment.  I have  done — my  enmity 
lives  not  beyond  the  grave.” 

Adela  now  sent  for  Howell,  and  after  their  first  emotions  had  sub 
sided,  informed  him  she  meant  immediately  to  return  to  Ireland  ; the 
expectation  of  her  doing  so  had  alone  prevented  his  going  befor^^ 
They  accordingly  commenced  their  journey  the  ensuing  day,  and  in  less 
than  a week  reached  the  dear  and  destined  spot,  so  interesting  to  both ; 
they  had  previously  settled  on  the  manner  in  which  the  discovery 
should  be  revealed  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  and  Adela  went  alone  to  her 
cottage : sad  and  solitary,  as  Mrs.  Marlowe  said  in  her  letter  to  Oscar, 
did  Adela  find  her  in  her  parlour;  but  it  was  a sadness  which 
vanished  the  moment  she  beheld  her.  With  all  the  tenderness  of  a 
mother  she  clasped  Adela  to  her  breast,  and  in  the  sudden  transports 
of  joy  and  surprise,  for  many  minutes  did  not  notice  her  dress  ; but 
when  she  did  observe  it,  what  powerful  emotions  did  it  excite  in  her 
breast  I Adela,  scarcely  less  agitated  than  she  was,  could  not,  for 
many  minutes,  relate  all  that  had  happened ; at  last  the  idea  cf  tl-e 


622 


CHILDKEN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


state  m wliicli  she  had  left  Howell,  made  her  endeavour  to  compose 
herself.  Mrs.  Marlowe  wept  while  she  related  her  sufferings;  but 
when  she  mentioned  Ilowelf,  surprise  suspended  her  tears ; a sur- 
prise increased  when  she  began  the  story;  but  when  she  came  to  that 
part  where  she  herself  had  betrayed  such  emotion,  while  listening  to 
Howell,  Mrs.  Marlowe  started  and  turned  pale.  “Your  feelings  are 
similar  to  mine,”  said  Adela,  “at  this  period  I became  agitated. 
Yes,”  she  continued,  “it  was  at  this  period  I laid  my  trembling  hand 
on  his,  and  exclaimed,  “she  lives!”  “Merciful  heaven!”  cried  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  “what  do  you  mean?”  “Oh!  let  me  now,”  cried  Adda, 
clasping  her  arms  around  her,  “ repeat  to  you  the  same  expression ; 
he  lives ! that  husband  so  beloved  and  regretted  lives !”  “ Oh  bring 

him  to  me!”  said  Mrs.  Marlowe  in  a faint  voice,  “let  me  behold  him 
while  I have  reason  myself  to  enjoy  the  blessing.”  Adela  flevf  from 
the  room ; Howell  was  near  the  door.  He  approached — ^he  entered 
the  room.  He  tottered  forward,  and  in  one  moment  was  at  the  feet 
and  in  the  arms  of  his  wife,  who  transfixed  to  the  chair,  could  only 
open  her  arms  to  receive  him.  The  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  of 
such  a re-union  cannot  be  described:  both  with  tears  of  grateful 
transport,  blest  the  power  which  had  given  such  comfort  to  their 
closing  days.  “ But  my  children,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marlowe,  suddenly, 
“ah!  when  shall  I behold  my  children!  why  did  they  not  accom- 
pany you?  ah!  did  they  deem  me  then  unworthy  of  bestowing  a 
mother’s  blessing?”  Howell  trembled  and  turned  pale.  “I  see,”  said 
Mrs.  Marlowe  interpreting  his  emotion,  “ I am  a wife  but  not  a 
mother.’  Howell  recovering  his  fortitude,. took  her  hand  and  pressed 
It  to  his  bosom:  “Yes,”  he  replied,  “you  area  mother;  one  dear, 
Dne  amiable  child  remains.  Heaven  be  praised!”  he  paused,  and  a 
tear  fell  to  the  memory  of  Juliana.  “ But  heaven,”  he  resumed,  “has 
taken  the  other  to  its  eternal  rest.  Inquire  not  concerning  her  at 
present,  I entreat ! soon  wiU  I conduct  you  to  the  grave,  there  will  I 
relate  her  fate,  and  together  will  we  mourn  it— then  shall  the  tears 
that  never  yet  bedewed  the  grave,  the  precious  tears  of  a mother, 
-embalm  her  sacred  dust.” 

Mrs.  Marlowe  wept,  but  she  complied  with  her  husband's  request ; 
she  inquired  in  a broken  voice  about  her  son,  and  the  knowledge  of 
his  happiness  gradually  cheered  her  mind. 

Adola  consented  to  stay  that  night  in  the  cottage,  but  the  next  ' 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


023 


she  determined  on  going  to  Woodlawn : to  tliink  slie  sliould  again 
w<*nder  tlirougli  it,  again  linger  in  the  walks  she  had  trodden  with 
those  she  loved,  gave  to  her  mind  a melancholy  jdeasure.  The 
next  morning,  attended  by  her  friend,  she  repaired  to  it,  and  was 
inexpressibly  affected  by  reviewing  scenes  endeared  by  tender  remem- 
brances of  happy  hours.  The  house,  from  its  closed  windows, 
appeared  quite  neglected  and  melancholy,  as  if  pleasure  had  forsaken 
it  with  the  poor  departed  general.  Standard,  his  favourite  horse, 
grazed  in  the  lawn,  and  beside  him,  as  if  a secret  sympathy  endeared 
them  to  each  other,  stood  the  dog  that  always  attended  the  general 
in  his  walks  ; he  instantly  recollected  Adela,  and  running  to  her, 
licked  her  hand,  and  evinced  the  utmost  joy.  She  patted  him  on  the 
head  while  her  tears  burst  forth  at  the  idea  of  him  who  had  been  his 
master.  The  transports  of  the  old  domestics,  particularly  of  the 
grey-headed  butler,  at  her  unexpected  return  increased  her  tears. 
But  when  she  entered  the  parlour,  in  which  her  father  usually  sat, 
^ she  was  quite  overcome,  and  motioning  with  her  hand  for  her  friends 
not  to  mind  her,  she  retired  to  the  garden.  Xkere  was  a little 
romantic  root-house  at  the  termination  of  it,  where  she  and  Oscar 
had  passed  many  happy  hours  together;  thither  she  repaired,  and 
bis  idea,  thus  revived  in  her  mind  did  not  lessen  its  dejection.  While 
she  sat  within  it,  indulging  her  sorrow,  her  eye  caught  some  lines 
inscribed  on  one  of  its  windows.  She  hastily  arose,  and  examining 
them,  instantly  recollected  the  hand  of  Oscar.  They  Avere  follows: 

Adieu,  sweet  girl,  a last  adieu  1 
We  part  to  meet  no  more ; 

Adieu  to  peace,  to  hope,  to  you. 

And  to  my  native  shore. 

If  fortune  had  propitious  smil’d, 

My  love  had  made  me  blest ; 

But  she,  like  me,  is  sorrow’s  child. 

By  sadness  dire  opprest. 

I go  to  India’s  sultry  clime, 

Oh  ! never  to  return  ; 

Beneath  some  lone,  embow’rir  g lime 
AVill  be  thy  soldier’s  urn. 

No  kindred  spirit  there  shall  weep, 

Or  pensive  musing  stray  ; 

My  image  thou  alone  wilt-keep 
iud  grief’s  soft  tribute  pay- 


024 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


Oscar,  previous  to  his  going  to  England,  mth  the  expectation  of 
being  sent  to  the  West-Indies,  had  paid  a secret  visit  to  Woodlawn, 
to  review  and  hid  adieu  to  every  well  known  and  beloved  spot,  and 
had  one  morning  at  early  day  inscribed  those  lines  on  a window  in 
the  root-house,  prompted  by  a tender  melancholy  he  could  not 
resist. 

“ His  love  is  then  unfortnuate,”  said  Adela,  pensively  leaning  her 
head  upon  her  hand : “ Oh ! Oscar ! how  sad  a similitude  is  there 
between  your  fate  and  mine  1”  She  returned  to  the  house. — Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Howell  (for  so  we  shall  in  future  call  Mrs.  Marlowe,  that  name 
being  only  assumed  while  her  husband  had  a prospect  of  inheriting 
his  uncle’s  fortune)  had  consented  to  stay  some  time  with  her. 
Oscar’s  lines  ran  in  her  head  the  whole  day  ; and  in  the  evening  she 
again  stole  out  to  read  them. 

She  had  been  absent  some  time  when  Mrs.  Howell  came  out  to  her  *. 
Adela  blushed  and  started  at  being  caught  at  the  window.  “ ’Tis  a 
long  time,  my  dear  Adela,”  said  Mrs.  Howell,  since  we  had  a ram-.# 
ble  in  this  delightful  garden  together ; indulge  me  in  taking  one,  and 
let  us  talk  of  past  times.”  “ Past  times,”  cried  Adela,  with  a faint 
smile,  “ are  not  always  the  pleasantest  to  talk  about.”  There  are 
some,  at  least  one  friend,”  cried  Mrs,  Howell,  whom  you  have  not 
yet  inquired  after.”  Adela’s  heart  suddenly  palpitated,  she  guessed 
who  that  one  friend  was.  Oscar  Eitzalan,  surely,”  continued  Mrs. 
Howell,  “merits  an  inquiry;  I have  good  news  to  tell  you  of  him, 
therefore  without  chiding  you  for  any  seeming  neglect  I will  reveal 
it.”  She  accordingly  related  his  late  reverse  of  situation. — Adela 
heard  her  with  deep  attention.  “ Since  fortune  then  is  propitious  at 
last,”  cried  she,  “his  love  will  no  longer  be  unfortunate.”  “’Tis 
time,  indeed,”  said  Mrs.  Howell,  fookiug  at  her  with  xdeasure,  “ that 
love  so  pure,  so  constant  as  his,  should  be  rewarded.  O ! Adela,” 
she  continued,  suddenly  taking  her  hand,  “ s’weet  daughter  of  my 
care,  hoAV  great  is  my  happiness  at  this  moment,  to  think  of  that 
about  to  be  your  portion.”  “My  happiness!”  exclaimed  Adela,  in  a 
dejected  voice.  “ Yes,”  replied  Mrs.  Howell,  “ in  your  union  with  a 
man  every  way  worthy  of  possessing  you ; a man,  w^ho,  from  the  first 
moment  he  beheld  you,  has  never  ceased  to  love — in  Miort,  with 
Oscar  Fitzalan  himself.” 

“Impossible!”  cried  Adela,  tr-embling  with  emotion  as  she  spoke; 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


625 


" Did  not — ^how  humiliating  is  the  remembrance ! did  not  Oscar  Fitz 
alan  reject  me,  when  the  too  generous  and  romantic  spiiit  of  my 
beloved  father  offered  mv  hand  to  his  acceptance 

“ For  once,”  said  Mrs.  Howell,  “ I must  disturb  the  sacred  ashes 
of  the  dead,  to  prevent  the  innocent  of  being  unhappy.  0 ! Adela, 
you  were  cruelly  deceived,  and  the  moment  which  gave  you  to  Bel- 
grave  rendered  Oscar  the  most  wretched  of  mankind.  My  heart  was 
the  repository  of  all  his  griefs,  and  how  many  are  the  bitter  tears  I 
have  shed  over  them.  Be  composed,”  continued  she,  seeing  Adela’s 
agitation,  “ and  a few  moments  will  explain  every  thing  to  you.” 
She  led  her  back  to  the  root-house,  and  in  the  most  explicit  mannei 
informed  her  of  Belgrave’s  treachery.  Adela  burst  into  tears  as  shf 
concluded.  She  wept  on  Mrs.  Howell’s  bosom,  and  acknowledged  she 
had  removed  a weight  of  uneasiness  from  her  mind.  “ Poor-Oscar,” 
she  continued,  “ how  much  would  the  knowledge  of  his  misery  have 
aggravated  mire!”  ‘‘ He  acted  nobly,”  said  Mrs.  Howell,  “in  con- 
cealing it ; and  amply  will  be  rewarded  for  such  conduct.”  She  tlien 
proceeded  to  inform  Adela  that  she  soon  expected  a visit  from  him. 
There  was  something  in  her  look  and  manner  which  instantly  excited 
the  suspicion  of  Adela,  who  blushing,  starting,  trembling,  exclaimed 
— “He  is  already  come!”  Mrs.  Howell  smiled,  and  a tear  fell  from 
her  upon  the  soft  hand  of  Adela.  “ He  is  already  come,”  she  repeated, 
“and  he  waits,  oh,  how  impatiently!  to  behold  his  Adela.” 

We  may  believe  his  impatience  was  not  put  to  a much  longer  test, 
Sut  when  Adela  in  reality  beheld  him  as  she  entered  the  par- 
our,  where  she  had  left  Mr.  Howell,  and  where  he  waited  for 
jhe  re-appearance  of  her  friend,  she  sunk  beneath  her  emotion, 
apon  that  faithful  bosom  which  had  so  long  suffered  the 
most  excruciating  pangs  on  her  account ; and  it  was  many  minutes 
«re  she  was  sensible  of  the  soft  voice  of  Oscar. — Oh  ! who  shall  paint 
his  transports  after  all  his  sufferings,  to  be  thus  rewarded ! But  in  the 
midst  of  his  happiness  the  idea  of  the  poor  general,  who  had  so 
generously  planned  it,  struck  upon  his  heart  with  a pang  of  sorrow. 
“Oh,  my  Adela!”  he  cried,  clasping  her  to  his  heart,  as  if  doubly 
endeared  by  the  remembrance,  “ is  Oscar  at  last  permitted  to  pour 
fDrth  the  fulness  of  his  soul  before  you,  to  reveal  his  tenderness,  to 
indulge  the  hope  of  calling  you  his,  a hope  which  affords  the  delight- 
ful prospect  .'‘1  being  able  to  contribute  to  your  felicity.  Yes,  moa^ 

27 


626 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBET. 


generous  of  friends,”  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  eyes  to  a picture  of  the 
general,  “ I will  endeavour  to  evince  my  gratitude  to  you  by  my 
conduct  to  your  child.”  “ Oh ! how  did  the  tear  he  shed  to  the 
inemory  of  her  father  interest  the  heart  of  Adela : her  own  fell  with 
it,  and  she  felt  that  the  presence  of  that  being  to  whom  they  were 
consecrated  was  alone  wanted  to  complete  their  happiness.  It  was 
ong  ere  she  was  sufficiently  composed  to  inquire  the  reason  of  Oscar’s 
sudden  appearance,  and  still  longer  ere  he  could  inform  her.  Mrs. 
Marlowe’s  melancholy  letter,  he  at  last  said  had  brought  him  over, 
with  the  hope  of  being  able  to  cheer  her  solitude,  and  also  (he 
acknowledged)  his  own  dejection  by  mutual  sympathy;  from  her 
cottage  he  had  been  directed  to  Woodlawn,  and  at  Woodlawn 
received  particulars  not  only  of  her  happiness  but  his  own.  Adela, 
who  had  never  yet  deviated  from  propriety,  would  not  now  infringe 
/t,  and  resolutely  determined,  till  the  expiration  of  her  mourning,  not 
to  bestow  her  hand  on  Oscar ; but  permitted  him  to  hope,  that  in  the 
intervening  space  most  of  his  time  might  be  devoted  to  her ; it  was 
necessary,  however,  to  sanction  that  hope  by  having  proper  society. 
She  could  not  flatter  herself  with  much  longer  retaining  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Howell,  as  the  latter  particularly,  was  impatient  to  behold  her  son. 
Oscar  therefore  requested  and  obtained  permission  from  Adela  to 
write  in  her  name  to  Lord  and  Lady  Oherbury  and  entreat  their  com- 
pany at  Woodlawn,  promising  she  would  then  accompany  them  to 
Castle  Oarberry,  and  from  thence  to  Dunreath  Abbey,  a tour  which, 
previous  to  Oscar’s  leaving  Wales,  had  been  agreed  on.  The  invita- 
tion was  accepted,  and  in  a few  days  Oscar  beheld  the  two  beings 
most  valued  by  him  in  the  world,  introduced  to  each  other ; tears  of 
rapture  started  to  his  eyes  as  he  saw  Lis  Adela  folded  to  the  bosom 
of  his  lovely  sister,  who  called  her  the  sweet  restorer  of  her^brother’s 
happiness ! Lord  Oherbury  was  already  acquainted  with  her,  and, 
rext  to  his  Amanda,  considered  her  the  loveliest  of  human  beings ; 
and  Lady  Martha  and  Lady  Araminta,  who  were  also  invited  to 
Woodlawn,  regarded  her  in  the  same  light.  A few  days  after  their 
arrival,  Mrs.  Howell  prepared  for  her  departure.  Adela,  who  con- 
sidered her  as  a second  mother,  could  not  behold  those  preparations 
without  tears  of  real  regret.  “Oh,  my  Adela  1”  she  exclaimed, 
^ these  tears  flatter,  yet  distress  me,  I am  jfleased  to  think  the  child 
of  my  care  regards  me  with  such  affection,  but  I am  hurt  to  think  she 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


62Y 


siiould  consider  my  loss  snch  an  affliction.  Oh  . my  child!  may  the 
endearments  of  the  friends  who  surround  you  steal  from  you  all  pain- 
ful remembrances : Nature  calls  me  from  you ; I sigh  to  behold  my 
child : I sigh,”  she  continued,  with  eyes  suffused  in  tears,  “ to  behold 
tlie  precious  earth  which  holds  another.” 

About  three  weeks  after  her  departure,  the  whole  party  proceeded 
to  Castle  Carberry.  Amanda  could  not  re-enter  it  without  emotions 
of  the  most  painful  nature ; she  recollected  the  moment  in  which  she 
had  quitted  it,  oppressed  with  sorrow  and  sickness,  to  attend  the 
closing  period  of  a father’s  life.  She  wept,  and  sighed  to  think  that 
the  happiness  he  had  prayed  for,  he  could  not  behold.  Lord  Cher- 
bury  saw  her  emotions,  and  soothed  them  with  the  softest  tender- 
ness ; it  was  due  to  that  tenderness  to  conquer  her  dejection,  and  in 
future  remembrance  of  her  father  was  only  attended  with  a pleasing 
melancholy.  She  did  not  delay  visiting  the  convent ; the  good-natured 
nuns  crowded  around  her,  and  cried,  laughed,  and  wished  her  joy 
almost  in  the  same  moment,  particularly  sister  Mary ; the  prioress’ 
pleasure  was  of  a less  violent,  but  more  affecting  nature ; an  almost 
constant  scene  of  gaiety  was  kept  up  at  the  Castle ; a gaiety  however, 
which  did  not  prevent  Lord  and  Lady  Cherbury  from  inspecting  into 
the  situation  of  their  poor  tenants,  whose  wants  they  relieved,  whose 
grievances  they  redressed,  and  whose  hearts  they  cheered  by  a pro- 
mise of  spending  some  months  in  every  year  at  the  castle.  After 
continuing  at  it  six  weeks,  they  crossed  over  to  Port  Patrick,  and 
from  thence  proceeded  to  Dunreath  Abbey,  which  had  been  com- 
pletely repaired,  and  furnished  in  a style  equally  modern  and  elegant ; 
and  here  it  was  determined  they  should  remain  till  the  solemnization 
of  Lord  Dunreath ’s  nuptials.  The  time  which  intervened  till  the 
period  appointed  for  them  was  agreeably  diversified,  by  parties  among 
the  neighbouring  families,  and  excursions  about  the  country ; but  no 
hours  were  happier  than  those  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  Abbey 
passed  when  free  from  company,  so  truly  were  they  united  to  each  other 
by  affection.  Lord  Dunreath,  soon  after  his  return,  waited  upon  the 
Marquis  of  Rosline,  and  by  his  sister’s  desire  signified  to  him,  that  if 
a visit  from  her  would  be  agreeable  to  the  marquis,  she  would  pay 
it;  this,  however,  was  declined,  and  about  the  same  period  Lady 
Dunreath  died.  Mrs.  Bruce,  to  whom  from  long  habit  she  was 
attached,  then  retired  to  another  part  of  Scotland,  ashamed  to  remain 


628 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBES’. 


where  her  conduct  was  known ; a conduct  which  deeply  affected  her 
niece,  whom  Amanda  visited  immediately  after  her  arrival,  and  found 
settled  in  a neat  house  near  the  town  she  had  lodged  in. — She 
received  Lady  Oherbury  with  every  demonstration  of  real  jdeasure, 
and  both  she  and  her  little  girls  spent  some  time  with  her  at  the 
Abbey. 

The  happy  period  for  completing  the  felicity  of  Oscar  at  last 
arrived.  In  the  chapel  where  his  parents  were  united  he  received 
from  the  hand  of  Lord  Oherbury,  the  lovely  object  of  his  long  tried 
affections.  The  ceremony  was  only  witnessed  by  his  own  particular 
friends ; but  at  dinner  all  the  neiglibouring  families  were  assembled 
and  the  tenants  were  entertained  in  the  great  hall,  where  dancing 
commenced  at  an  early,  and  was  continued  to  a late  hour.  hTow 
having  (to  use  the  words  of  Adam)  brought  our  story  to  the  sum  of 
earthly  bliss,  we  shall  conclude,  first  giving  a brief  account  of  the 
characters  connected  with  it. 

Lady  Greystock,  who  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished,  we  shall 
first  mention.  After  the  death  of  Lady  Euphrasia,  she  found  her 
company  no  longer  desired  at  the  marquis’s,  and  accordingly  repaired 
to  Bath : here  she  had  not  been  long  ere  she  became  acquainted  with 
a set  of  female  puritans,  ‘who  soon  wrought  a total  change  (I  will  not 
say  a reformation)  in  her  ladyship’s  sentiments ; and  to  give  a con- 
vincing proof  of  this  change,  she  was  prevailed  on  to  give  her  hand 
to  one  of  their  spruce  young  preachers,  who  shortly  taught  her  what 
indeed  she  had  long  wanted  to  learn,  the  doctrines  of  repentance,  for 
Diost  sincerely  did  she  repent  putting  herself  into  his  power.  Vexa- 
tion, disappointment  and  grief  brought  on  a'  lingering  illness,  from 
which  she  never  recovered ; when  convinced  she  was  dying,  she  sent 
for  Rushbrook,  and  made  a full  confession  of  her  treachery  and 
injustice  to  him,  in  consequence  of  which  he  took  immediate  posses- 
sion of  his  uncle’s  fortune;  and  thus  in  the  evening  of  his  life  enjoyed 
a full  recompense  for  the  trials  of  its  early  period.  Lady  Greystock 
died  with  some  degree  of  satisfaction  at  the  idea  of  disappointing 
her  husband  of  the  fortune  she  was  convinced  he  had  married 
her  for. 

Mrs.  Howell,  after  visiting  her  son,  retired  to  her  husband’s 
cottage,  where  their  days  glided  on  in  a kind  of  pleasing  melancholy ; 
the  happiness  of  that  son  and  his  Emily  is  as  perfect  as  happiness 

n be  in  this  sublunary  state. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY. 


629 


Sir  Charles  Bingley,  after  studiously  avoiding  Lord  and  Lady 
Cherbury  for  above  two  years,  at  last  by  chance  was  thrown  in  their 
way,  and  then  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  he  was  not  as  agitated  at 
the  sight  of  Amanda  as  he  had  dreaded.  He  did  not  refuse  the 
invitation  of  Lord  Cherbury;  the  domestic  happiness  he  saw  him 
enjoying,  rendered  his  own  unconnected  and  wandering  life  more 
unpleasant  than  ever  to  him.  Lady  Ararninta  Dormer  was  almost 
constantly  in  his  company;  no  longer  fascinated  by  Amanda,  he 
could  now  see  and  admire  her  perfections ; he  soon  made  known  his 
admiration ; the  declaration  was  not  ungraciously  received,  and  he 
offered  his  hand  and  was  accepted ; an  acceptance  which  put  him  in 
possession  of  happiness  equal  to  Lord  Oherbury’s. 

The  marquis  and  marchioness  of  Rosline  pass  their  days  in  gloomy., 
retirement,  regretful  of  the  past,  and  hopeless  of  the  future.  Free- 
love  flutters  about  every  public  place,  boasts  of  having  carried  off  a 
Scotch  heiress;  and  thinks. from  tliat  circumstance  he  may  now  lay 
siege  to  any  female  heart,  with  a certainty  of  being  successful. 

To  return  once  more  to  the  sweet  descendants  of  the  Dunreath 
family ; the  goodness  of  heart,  the  simplicity  of  manners  which  evei 
distinguished  them,  they  still  retain ; from  having  been  children  of 
sorrow  themselves,  they  feel  for  all  who  come  under  that  denomi- 
nation, and  their  charity  is  at  once  bestowed  as  a tribute  from  grati- 
tude to  Heaven,  and  from  humanity  to  want ; from  gratitude  to  that 
Being  who  watched  their  unsheltered  youth,  who  regarded  them 
through  innumerable  perils,  who  placed  them  on  the  summit  of 
prosperity,  from  whence,  by  dispensing  his  gifts  around,  they  trust 
to  be  translated  to  a still  greater  height  of  happiness.  Lady  Dun- 
reath’s  wish  is  fulfilled;  to  use  her  own  words,  their  past  sorrows  are 
only  remembered  to  teach  them  pity  for  the  woes  of  others ; their 
virtues  have  added  to  the  renown  of  their  ancestors,  and  entailed 
peace  upon  their  own  souls;  their  children,  by  all  connected  with 
them,  are  considered  as  blessings : gratitude  has  already  consecrated 
their  names,  and  their  example  has  inspired  others  with  emulation 
to  pursue  their  course. 


THE  END. 


-iy 


